


De Minimis Non Curat Lex

by FaustianAspirant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, HP: EWE, M/M, The Malfoy Trials
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-12 14:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7938073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaustianAspirant/pseuds/FaustianAspirant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Malfoy’s lip curls into a characteristic sneer. “What? I was under the impression that this was my trial.” </em>
</p><p>  <em>“And I was under the impression that you wanted to leave this place without an armed escort,” Harry bites back, half-automatically. His voice carries easily across the entire hall. He feels a camera flash in his face - ignores it. </em></p><p>  <em>Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “You were misinformed,” he says, flatly.</em></p><p>  <em>Oh. Well then.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So it appears I've emerged from out of hiding in order to publish a fic that I technically started around three years ago. After copious editing, I've finally decided it deserves to see the light of day - primarily because I couldn't bring myself to let go of the concept. 
> 
> Which was: if we abandon the notion of postwar wizarding society turning completely against the Malfoys (which, let's be real here: it wouldn't), and if Draco doesn't undergo an immediate attitude adjustment (which, again: he wouldn't)... is there still an opportunity for Drarry? 
> 
> My tentative answer is, yes. Yes, there is.
> 
> Picks up from the end of the Battle of Hogwarts.

The bathroom has been left utterly dilapidated by recent events. Half of the sinks have collapsed messily in upon themselves, as though a curse had glanced across the walls, gouging out chunks in the process. Rubble is strewn across the tiles in scattered, asymmetrical heaps, and a broken faucet drips gently into a spreading pool of water. Overall, the whole room looks as though it has been chewed up and spat back out again. 

Layered over the quiet, Harry can hear the patter of jagged, half bitten-back sobs. They echo across the wreckage as an odd sort of counterpoint to the steady drip of the tap. 

He almost sheds the cloak - almost calls out. Almost, but not quite. Force of habit keeps him quiet. Instead, he creeps forward until a hunched, weeping figure resolves into view. 

It’s Draco Malfoy: curled up beneath a broken mirror, knees clasped tight to his chest. Harry’s not sure who else he expected. After all, Draco does, if anything, have joint monopoly on lurking in bathrooms, weeping – and yes, sure enough, there’s Myrtle too. Nice to know that nothing really changes. This time, she’s perched on a discarded toilet seat, fixing him with large, watery eyes. 

“Now, stop it,” she tells him, sternly. “It’s all very well, crying, but there’s a time and a place, and I’m sure you’ve done enough of it.” 

Harry decides she probably doesn’t notice the irony. Malfoy, at least, seems to take strange comfort in this advice, swiping a hand across his eyes, and giving a weak sort of grimace. 

“Think you know everything, do you?” he mutters, shakily. There’s no bite to it. 

“I think at least I’m not the one hiding from the Aurors,” she sniffs, with dignity. “I think at least I’m not the one on the run from the _law_!”

Harry starts. He hadn’t thought of that – in fact, he’s not sure why he hadn’t thought of that – and for a moment, he toys with the idea of revealing himself. But there’s no-one around, and Malfoy doesn’t seem in a hurry to move, and – truthfully, he’s almost curious. 

Malfoy breathes out, heavily. “I didn’t…” He fists his hands, tight, in his robes. “They took my mother. _She_ told me to run.” 

Harry jumps at the mention of Narcissa. He’ll – he’ll have to fix that. Yes, that ought to be fixed. Later. 

Myrtle gives a low noise of sympathy. “You don’t look much like you’re running to me,” she comments, gently. 

“That’s because I haven’t got a choi–” Malfoy seems to arrest himself halfway through. “No. No, that’s not true.” He looks up at Myrtle, eyes narrowing. “I’m not on the run.” 

“All right, you’re not on the run,” she says, soothingly. “But you’re scared.” 

Malfoy sits up straighter, with a look that is equal parts hunted and determined. His hands are still clenched into fists. “Of course I’m scared.” 

_You’ve a right to be_ , thinks Harry, but without much heat. There’s triumph there – a little – but it’s faint enough to be diluted by pity. After all, this is Malfoy. Harry outgrew Malfoy a while ago; he hasn’t got anything _left_ but pity, for the most part. Harry is tired, he’s weary, and he’s damn well done with all this. That doesn’t leave much room for anything more complex. And for all that he’s exhausted – well, Malfoy looks more so. 

“You’re not as scared as before, though,” says Myrtle, suddenly. “A year ago, you couldn’t even look at me.”

Malfoy does so now, almost unwillingly. “What?” 

“ _You_ know. You never used to be able to look me in the eye! At first I reckoned it was because you thought I was ugly, which was rather upsetting for a while. But I know you have nicer manners than that.” She pouts. The effect is rather disconcerting. “I think it’s because you were _scared_ of me.” 

He bristles. “I –” 

“You were! It’s not nice, you know, Draco. Reminding someone they’re dead. If you’re afraid of ghosts, how do you think that makes me feel, hmm?” 

The tap drips. Otherwise – silence. Harry takes a shallow, deliberate breath, preparing himself to speak. 

“ _Sorry_ ,” says Malfoy, with sudden, unpleasant vehemence. It’s incongruous enough, hearing him say it, and Harry is almost startled out of his resolve. 

Myrtle gives a brisk, mollified sigh. “Well, I suppose that’s all right then,” she says, somewhat sulkily.

Harry, remembering past conversations with Myrtle wherein similar offense was taken, cannot help but feel that Malfoy got off disproportionately lightly. 

Even more so when she leans closer, reaching out as though tempted to stroke his hair. “Listen, you could always stay here. Couldn’t you? I mean, obviously you’d have to sneak down to the kitchens every so often, but…” 

“No,” says Malfoy, firmly. “No, I’ve got to –– I have to –” He breaks off, frustrated, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I’ve decided to go.”

Abruptly, he stands, scattering shards of glass across the cracked tiles. There is a soft rustle, as the Invisibility Cloak is discarded, but he doesn’t seem to hear, and Myrtle is too busy watching him. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet, running both hands through his hair – which is bedraggled and damp – and across his face – which is equally so, and markedly grimier. He stares, wild-eyed, at the multitude of reflections cast between the spiderweb cracks of the mirror, as though expecting attack from one or all of them. Then, he breathes, sharply. He has caught sight of Harry, silhouetted in the corner of the glass. 

Harry watches him through the mirror, as he forcibly reigns in his reaction. He closes his eyes, almost ruefully. Bow his head. Opens them again. 

Then, slowly, he turns. Harry stiffens, wand at the ready, but this time the attack fails to come. 

Myrtle opens her mouth as if preparing to scream. Before she can, Malfoy raises a finger to his lips – then, softly, almost languorously, shushes her. Hollow, it echoes across the room. 

She complies. It’s – uncanny, actually. 

They all of them stand there, unmoving: Harry with his wand pointed directly at Malfoy’s throat; Myrtle, aiming a look of pure disgust at Harry, which he carefully ignores. Then, gently, Malfoy raises his arms, palms upwards, until they are spread out just a little apart from his side. It’s as if he lacks the strength to raise them further. Despite – or perhaps because of – this, it’s perhaps the most complete posture of surrender that Harry has ever encountered, outside of seeing somebody cursed: and even then, all the more, because there is nothing in this that is not deliberate. 

“You’re under arrest, Draco,” he says, without lowering his wand. Their eyes both flicker towards it, and in that second –– Harry can just about pinpoint the moment they both realise – they see that it’s not his own. It’s the hawthorn. 

Malfoy closes his eyes again, in what anyone might take for acquiescence. “Quite,” he says.

\---

Over the following days, Draco, Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy all apply to the Wizengamot for bail. This is granted conditionally in the case of the former two accused, who are both confined to Malfoy Manor whilst awaiting the verdict of the War Crimes Tribunal. 

Lucius Malfoy is remanded in custody. 

\---

On the 3rd June, an hour and a half before he is to face trial by fire, ice, and Wizengamot sub-committee, Narcissa draws Draco to one side, and tells him, in no uncertain terms, that he is to use every method at his disposal to avoid Azkaban. 

“I wish you had run whilst you had the chance,” she murmurs, ruefully, leaning in on the pretext of adjusting his tie. 

The Auror in the front hall, who has been something of a household fixture for weeks now, shows no signs of having heard. Draco has taken to calling him ‘our favourite umbrella stand’ – when out of earshot. 

His tie is, as always, immaculate. Gently, he brushes her hand away. “That was never an option, Mother,” he says, with as much conviction as he can spare. 

She moves to flatten his hair – of which there is not a strand out of place - instead. “You were a child,” she recites, expressionless. “You couldn’t possibly be expected to understand the consequences of your actions. You were coerced into performing a task you found abhorrent, all for the sake of a man you never respected, but rather feared. _You were not to blame_.”

Draco catches hold of her wrist, keeping her hand still. “They’ll never believe it,” he says – or, more accurately, rasps. His throat has suddenly turned hideously dry. 

Narcissa fixes him with a formidable stare – the kind which, if bottled, could be easily far more lethal than anything he did or didn’t do to Albus Dumbledore. “Make them believe it,” she tells him. “Sacrifice us if you have to.” 

They both steal a glance towards the open door of the coatroom, where Lucius’ outdoor cloak and cane are conspicuously absent. 

“Never,” promises Draco – this time, with genuine vehemence. 

Narcissa still presses. “Do what you must. Dredge up every old favour. Harry Potter still owes me a life debt, and I intend to see it fulfilled.” 

“It will be,” says Draco. That, at least, he is sure of. Whatever happens to him today, Narcissa will never see so much as a single brick of Azkaban. 

At that, she pulls him into a tight embrace, crumpling his tie and unsettling his hair in the process. He tries to hug her back, but there’s no – there’s no time, and anyway, his arms have grown brittle as fired clay. Instead, he just stands there, inhaling the scent of her perfume. Today is a jasmine day. Yesterday was – rose oil. Rose, with a hint of vanilla, and she wore a dark red shift to match. He resolves to etch these details into his mind - at the expense of all he has prepared for the trial, if necessary. If he can’t hold onto her, then he can at least hold onto this. 

Abruptly, she releases him, and with a horrible, faint little sob that sounds an awful lot like “ _Mummy_ ”, he disentangles himself, too. Adjusts his tie. Resolves that his hair will have to do as it is. 

“I believe it’s time to go,” he tells their umbrella stand, with a shade of the old imperiousness. 

“That it is, Mr. Malfoy,” he replies, and that’s that – they’re out the door.

\---

 _You were a child_. Well, yes – but what of it? What does that make Potter – infant prodigy? 

_You couldn’t be expected to understand the consequences of your actions._ If that’s the case, why is he being tried at all? Why not just lock him up now, as a pre-emptive strike against the next time he decides to act without thinking it through? Save a lot of lives that way. 

_You were coerced into performing a task you found abhorrent, all for the sake of a man you never respected, but rather feared_. That’s not how it worked, and she knows it. For the Dark Lord, fear was respect, and respect was fear; they were virtually interchangeable. And who amongst them hadn’t felt a dark sort of glamour in what they performed? Who hadn’t dreamt of a new world, gloriously unencumbered by modernity, sense, or restraint? – the new world they were meant to have carved out of the guts of the old: the past revisiting with a vengeance; the one they were going to destroy into being. The Dark Lord himself was a relic - a talisman from simpler times, where even then, he was abhorred, but that never stopped him. 

_You were not to blame_. That’s highly debatable, mother. In fact, they’re debating it now. 

_You were a child_. Yes, but which of us weren’t? If I can’t take responsibility, nobody can. Name me a single murderer who’s sound of mind.

Draco buries his head in his hands, in the hopes of blotting out this particular strain of thought. Then, he imagines his father – whose trial is scheduled directly after his own - sitting outside the courtroom in an identical posture, and decides he isn’t suited for introspection at all. 

He tries to imagine instead how any of his ancestors from the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy might have comported themselves in his position, with the vague inclination of following suit. Eventually, he admits that they’d only have crossed every single Tribunal member’s palm with unreasonable amounts of gold, and left it at that. The case would never have reached the court. When was the last time a Malfoy found himself on the wrong side of the law? Lucius excluded, of course. 

A lovely thought, that. Father as trendsetter; Draco as collateral damage. Oh, his _head_. 

He scrubs viciously at his scalp, bitterly regretting his decision to eschew any painkiller potions this morning. He thinks that he catches his Auror – who is seated next to him on the bench, like the good old fixture he is – sparing him a half-sympathetic glance. Somehow, this serves to make everything feel that much worse. The fact that even the man who is nominally here to supervise the details of his house arrest looks at him as though he were some kind of wayward infant – well, it certainly rankles. 

For the first time in his life - and bizarrely at that - he wishes he hadn’t made such a hash of killing Dumbledore. But then, more than anything, he wishes he’d had – 

“Mr Malfoy. It’s time.” 

\- oh, let it be already. 

Somewhat dazed, and more than a little numb, Draco allows himself to be ushered into the courtroom. It is oppressively dark, but for the pale illumination of a few scattered candles: he wonders if this is deliberate. In all likelihood, it is. Still. It could be staggeringly worse; the new administration, unlike its slew of predecessors, has baulked at the idea of returning the Dementors to Azkaban. Seemingly, they have managed to do what previous Ministries of every political stripe have failed to effect: kicked the damn things out of the place for good. Something the War altered for the better, then. There’s nothing to be wary of now, save for the Tribunal itself – whose faces Draco can only just pick out against the prevailing gloom. 

Predictably enough, Kinsley Shacklebolt sits at the centre, flanked by twenty or so appointed representatives, the overwhelming bulk of whom consist of either ex-Order of the Phoenix members, lesser-known war heroes, or family members of the above. Case in point: the benches are practically teeming with Weasleys.

Well, all right. Teeming with three or so. Somehow, the hair gives them the illusion of greater numbers. There’s the burly, heavily scarred sort of fellow, who, in defiance of all sense of place and decorum, has chosen to don an ostentatious, fang-shaped earring. There’s the slight, bespectacled ex-Prefect, seated directly next to the Minister, with a look that appears rather pained. Then, of course, there’s the venerable paterfamilias himself, seeming markedly more careworn than the last time Draco saw him – which was, admittedly, rather a while ago; and, admittedly, that’s also not saying much. He recognises a few other faces dotted about the front row: Augusta Longbottom, for one – and, oh, look at that: Neville himself. Wonderful. Professor McGonagall sitting next to him, incongruously enough. There’s a woman who, with an unpleasant jolt, he realises he recognises from some of his mother’s old photographs: long-lost Aunt Andromeda. Like the rest, she looks older, and – well –– older, at any rate. He avoids her gaze, and inadvertently, his eyes land on – good grief, is that the gamekeeper? Oh, that’s it, it’s official: he’s doomed. And just when he thought they couldn’t get any more blatantly partisan, too. 

Then he alights on the person sitting on Shacklebolt’s other side, and he – well, he… well, it’s not as if he wasn’t expecting this. 

Nonetheless, he finds it very difficult not to gape like a loon at the sight of Harry Potter. 

Potter, damn it all, looks discomfited not one whit. But then, he at least had some semblance of forewarning; it’s not as if this was sprung upon him at the last minute. In fact, he doesn’t look much different from the day that he –– from the last time they met. In fairness, he seems somewhat cleaner. No bloodstains. The expression is roughly the same: a kind of – of pitying resignation, Draco supposes, and instantly hates him for it. The Harry Potter who pulled him from the Fiendfyre: that, he can almost – almost – live with; the Harry Potter who cornered him seconds after he had finished crying, and held his own wand to his throat – is somehow more difficult to bear. 

He looks away. 

Shacklebolt waits until Draco has taken a seat at the centre of the room, before clapping his hands: once, briskly. “The sixteenth assembly of the Special War Tribunal is now in session.” 

Instantly, the room is flooded with light. Pupils contracting painfully, Draco winces, turning away from the glare – and, in doing so, realises he is surrounded by a ring of people, all seated on the stone benches encircling him, who had hitherto been obscured by the shadows. A couple of cameras flash, and he reminds himself almost angrily that he was expecting this too. Most of the audience don’t even bother to hide their curiosity; they eye him at arm’s length, like witnesses to a particularly gruesome Splinching. 

Shacklebolt stands – his expression determinedly neutral. “Draco Telemachus Malfoy. You have been brought here before the War Crimes Tribunal to answer charges relating to your affiliation with Tom Riddle, more commonly known as Lord Voldemort ––” there are a few stifled gasps from the audience; Draco finds himself shuddering along with them “- and the organization calling themselves the Death Eaters. Alongside Death Eater involvement, you are charged with wilfully granting known Death Eaters Belletrix Lestrange, Fenrir Grayback, and others entrance to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, during which they proceeded to fire Unforgiveable Curses amongst the students. You are charged with repeatedly casting the Cruciatus Curse on Thorfinn Rowle and Antonin Dolohov. You are charged with aiding and abetting the kidnap and subsequent torture of Luna Lovegood, Garrick Ollivander, the goblin Griphook, and Hermione Granger. And, finally, you are charged with the attempted murder of Katie Bell, Ron Weasley, and Albus Dumbledore.”

All that Draco can think, as he watches Shacklebolt’s impassive expression for any hint of modulation, is that he is surprised the list wasn’t longer. 

“Mr Malfoy, how do you plead?” 

Somehow, having known that the question was coming does nothing to prepare him, and Draco still finds himself wrongfooted. In this instant, he is transported back to the battlements atop the Astronomy Tower, faced with the sudden snap decision of whether or not to lower his wand: a trackless kind of tableau, to which there is no satisfactory conclusion. There is, he thinks wryly, no Severus Snape to take this one out of his hands. Although, in that moment, he almost expects intervention from someone: an unexpected break-in; a fit of hysterics from the crowd; something to cut him off before he is capable of answering. 

Help is not immediately forthcoming. 

All right. For real, then. Draco straightens – stands, even – and tries very, very hard not to look like a frightened child. But, for the most part, he thinks of rose oil – or was it patchouli? Cinnamon? 

“Mr. Malfoy.” 

Not a question, but a summons. Story of his life – but then, who’s bitter? And he really ought to stop thinking like that. He thinks of his father instead; he thinks of dining room chairs unaccountably vacant, and broken, tacit assent as his mother had told him to run. 

Draco exhales, once, very slowly. Then he does what he has failed to do since he first entered the courtroom, which is this: he looks Harry Potter directly in the eye. 

The courtroom fails to catch fire; nothing shatters, nothing explodes, and nothing is changed. They are rather unremarkable eyes, all told, despite their ability to send the media into transports. At the minute, they are practically brim full of disgusting, perverse, unreasonable concern. Shove it, Potter. 

So, looking Harry Potter in the eye, Draco lifts his chin as high as he ever held it at school, and pronounces: “Guilty as charged.”


	2. Chapter 2

Explosive murmurs from the crowd. Harry doesn’t even hesitate. Swiftly, he stands, and, thumping his fist on the desk for emphasis, yells out: “Objection!”

This echoes around the court with regrettable volume. There is a brief, bemused silence as the crowd digests this. The silence of his colleagues is, if anything, briefer and more bemused. 

Neville, recovering, reaches across from the row behind, and taps Harry on the shoulder. 

Harry flinches; turns. “ _What?_ ” he hisses, in a vague attempt to keep things discreet. 

“Er, Harry, mate? You can’t object to the defendant’s own plea.” At this, Neville looks intensely apologetic. Nonetheless, his whisper seems to carry across the entire hall. Damn echoes. “Um, particularly not if he’s just confessed his guilt.” 

Harry just looks at him, jaw set. “I can if it’s _stupid_.” And he glares at them – all of them – more or less daring them to challenge the right of the Boy Who Lived Twice to declare a particular action stupid.

The Tribunal members all exchange glances of varying length and uncertainty. 

It has become clear to them that Harry is not planning on sitting down any time soon. He can just _see_ Neville wondering whether they all ought to stand up too, in the interests of camouflage. Still, no-one moves except for the Minister, who turns slowly to face him. 

Kingsley gives him a long, level look. Harry holds his gaze. There is a short, wordless tussle, during which neither of them moves, neither of them blinks, nor does either of them really breathe. The Tribunal is beginning to look more than a little concerned. 

Then, slowly, with the detached air of the decidedly unimpressed, Kingsley lowers his head. “ _Sustained_ ,” he says.

Harry is, for a moment, so caught up in the victory of having won the – well, having won whatever that was - that he is briefly at a loss for what to say. He looks towards Malfoy instead: Malfoy, who, in spite of everything, he has managed to rescue _again_ – except, Malfoy doesn’t really have the look of a man who has just been disentangled from the debris of his own stupidity. Again. In fact, he has rather the look of a man who has swallowed a defective Puking Pastille: instead of keeling over and vomiting as expected, he just appears somewhat ill, and more than a little – enraged? As though he plans on writing a pointed letter to the management, just as soon as he’s got his queasiness under control. 

Actually, if one is willing to overlook the queasiness, it’s something of a default Malfoy expression. 

It being such, Harry decides to ignore it. “Well, first off, I was there that night on the Astronomy Tower, and he didn’t attempt to kill Dumbledore. They just – talked. He lowered his wand. He was about to swap sides!” 

Malfoy regards him from the defendant’s chair with something approaching horror. “You were _not_ there,” he says, as if Harry has any reason whatsoever to lie. 

“I was, actually,” says Harry, cheerfully, because equally, there’s no reason to not enjoy this. “I can prove it under Veritaserum, if you’d like.” 

He darts a challenging look at the other Tribunal members. Professor McGonagall seems decidedly unimpressed; Arthur appears to have his face buried in his hands, for some reason. 

Kingsley clears his throat. “That won’t be necessary, Councillor Potter. If you would like to tell us what, in your opinion, took place on the night of the death of Albus Dumbledore?” 

Harry opens his mouth to speak again, when – of all people - Malfoy cuts in. “Actually, I’d like Potter to verify these claims under Veritaserum, please.”” 

There is instant hush. Harry doesn’t bother closing his mouth; he just gapes at him. 

Malfoy’s lip curls into a characteristic sneer. “What? I was under the impression that this was _my_ trial.”

“And I was under the impression that you wanted to leave this place without an armed escort,” Harry bites back, half-automatically. His voice carries easily across the entire hall. He feels a camera flash in his face - ignores it. 

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “You were misinformed,” he says, flatly. 

Oh. Well then. 

In the wake of the pause that follows, the crowd, hitherto denied any sort of outlet for their incredulity, goes – not to put too fine a point on it – haywire. The courtroom dissolves into a spate of frenzied mutterings, all mingled into a dull roar of none-too-tolerant disbelief. Harry can’t exactly blame them. It’s only fair. He’d rather like to join them in the audible speculations as to whether or not this is some elaborate, Death Eater’s double bluff, as opposed to actually being obliged to pass authoritative judgment on the issue. 

As is, he – probably ought to be passing authoritative judgment on the issue. 

Quickly, he collects himself. “Are you telling me you actually want to go to Azkaban?” he manages. 

It’s not precisely authoritative, but it’s certainly a leading question. 

Never in his life - audibly or otherwise, even from the relatively impressionable age of eleven - has Harry ever been tempted to describe Draco Malfoy as ‘dangerous’. Yet now, the current edge to his expression can only be categorized as exactly that. 

“What I want is justice, Potter,” he says – still overemphasising the ‘p’ in Harry’s name, and for a moment, he, Harry, glares out of habit, even if strictly speaking no insult was proffered. 

“That’s all. I’m prepared to take full responsibility for my actions. And seeing as I’ve saved us all a lot of time and pled guilty, I think that the very least I can trouble you for is a sentence.”  
Inexplicably, there are a few titters from the spectators – particularly the press.

“There won’t be any sentence!” insists Harry, provoked beyond all measure. “Not if you’re so keen to – to pull some kind of stunt over -” 

At this, he is interrupted by Professor McGonagall. “Mr. Potter, I entreat you to _sit down_.” 

Never in the history of human elocution has a statement been phrased any less like an entreaty. Suitably chastened, Harry takes a seat on the bench. At this, Malfoy looks horrendously smug. 

“Now if,” says Professor McGonagall, “there has been any element of hastiness in establishing the facts of the case – be _quiet_ , Mr Potter – a notion that I am willing to entertain, given that Mr Malfoy has yet to actually testify, then regardless of the defendant’s qualms, it is our duty to investigate further.” 

There are nods from the benches. Harry turns to Professor McGonagall, this time attempting to keep his voice level. “He saved my life, Professor,” he remonstrates. “When we were taken to Malfoy Manor, he pretended not to recognise any of us.” 

At this, Malfoy speaks up. “Rubbish. Your face was all swollen, Potter; I genuinely wasn’t sure.” 

Harry snorts, bizarrely entertained by this claim. “Well yeah, but wouldn’t that have been what swung it? Big head, and all?” He honestly cannot believe that Malfoy has failed to make that quip; he’s never exactly been above targeting the obvious.

Malfoy, for his part, scarcely looks amused. “Oh yes, Potter, very droll. I’m sure the Dark Lord would have laughed if I’d brought him some nameless piece of wand-fodder on account of his _swollen head._ ” 

At the mention of Lord Voldemort – however oblique – the atmosphere of the courtroom takes a distinct turn for the sombre. It’s as though somebody adjusted the brightness levels on a Muggle TV; everything seems to plummet, and Harry feels the grin slide straight off his face. Okay, fine, he gets it. 

“So you were scared,” he presses. “You acted under duress.” 

Say yes, you daft bugger. All you have to do is admit to the fact that you spent the majority of your late adolescence scared shitless, doing grunt work for a prize psychopath on the basis of some rather dubious familial affiliations. Then I can testify to confirm, the rest of us can squeeze out a unanimous acquittal, and we’ll all be out of here in time for –– well, in time for whatever it is people do in their spare afternoons, when they’re not busy arbitrating over the fates of the condemned. Parcheesi? He makes a mental note to look into it. 

“I question the neutrality of this Tribunal,” Malfoy says instead, in in a manner decidedly non-acquiescent.

It is at this point that Harry appreciates in fully clarity that peace, quiet and Parcheesi are probably quite categorically a thing of the past. 

It is also at this point that Bill Weasley discreetly hits him with a Silencing Spell. 

Frankly, it’s all downhill from there.

\---

Draco wakes, fully clothed, to the gentle pressure of a hand upon his shoulder. He notes, with some surprise – followed by a thrill that is equal parts relief and trepidation - that it is his own bed. His own bed, with its own customary hangings, liberally streaked with silver and green – now drawn apart to admit the pale efforts of the morning sun. Clean sheets; after he’d all but resigned himself to waiving the right to sheets _and_ cleanliness for at least the next decade: linen and Azkaban, to his mind, being more or less mutually exclusive. He hadn’t even thought to hope for sun; he’d been rather hung up on the thought of sheets, in all honesty. Toothbrushes, sinks, and – sweet Merlin - changes of clothes. An Azkaban cell conjures up images of frightful austerity –– he’s not sure what he’s expecting, but he knows that he isn’t expecting much. He was never tactless enough to ask father about all that. He’s rather glad that he didn’t, actually. 

Anyway, he’s here, and someone is shaking his shoulder. That’s something to go on, at least. 

“Mnnrrr,” he tells his mother, which is about as decisive as he’s likely to get before 9am. 

“Darling,” she says, in a tone that bespeaks considerable anguish – a tad underhand, because it’s much too early for emotional blackmail - “what have you done?” 

Draco shifts himself up, so that he is almost sitting. The previous day’s recollections come hurtling towards the surface of his mind like a team of particularly boisterous synchronized swimmers. “Told the truth, I think,” he answers, carefully. 

As soon as he sits up fully, Narcissa drops a newspaper onto his knees. 

_The Daily Prophet_. EX-DEATH EATER DEMANDS JUSTICE. There he is, just under the headline, standing, but visibly shaking. _I question the neutrality of this Tribunal_ , Draco mouths in sync with his photograph. 

He shrugs. “I was expecting something more lurid,” he remarks, lightly. “But then, I guess the _Prophet_ can’t risk as much as it used to –”

Narcissa slides another paper on top of _Prophet_ , effectively cutting him off. It’s _The Quibbler_ – now topping _Prophet_ sales by a distinct margin, owing to its newly re-established reformist slant. IS DRACO MALFOY SUFFERING FROM PRISONER’S JITTERS? 

Draco almost smiles. “That’s more like it.” 

Another paper lands in his lap. _The Morning Howler_. YOU-KNOW-WHO’S PROTÉGÉ TALKS BACK TO TRIBUNAL. 

“Oh, come on – really?” 

One last tabloid is added to the pile. HUDDERSFIELD WIZARD MARRIES KNEAZLE IN MAGICAL VEGAS. 

Draco peers at the title page. Ah. It’s _The Portent_ – a paper which, following the _Quibbler’s_ recent flirtation with mainstream status, has been making moves towards occupying its vacant throne on the fringe. 

Narcissa gives a small sniff of acknowledgment. “You’re on page 12, I think. I suppose you can’t please everyone.” 

“Mmm,” agrees Draco, vaguely. “Mother, I’d like to sleep for a little while longer.” 

Narcissa shakes her head, apologetically. Brushing away the hangings, she takes a seat on the corner of the mattress. Then, a little tentatively: “Love, if this is some sort of gambit, it was awfully ill-conceived.” 

Draco winces. “No gambit. The truth.” 

“ _Draco_ ,” she says, quietly appalled. 

“The truth is I’m guilty. There’s no stepping around that.” He tries not to phrase it like ingratitude, and feels he misses the mark, slightly. 

But Narcissa, rather than quitting the room in disgust as she probably ought to, still reaches out, smoothing a thumb over the back of his hand. “I know you,” she tells him, simply, inclining her head until he is forced to catch her gaze. Strands of her hair tickle his knees. She’s growing it long; even longer than usual, and she is still so very beautiful it hurts. “My lovely, brave boy. My hero. You’re still here, and that matters – more than anything. You have _nothing_ to be ashamed of.”

“Mother, that’s not -” 

“Let Potter testify. Tell them what really happened, and then this can all be over.” Her grip on him tightens, though not so as to be painful. 

Yes, he could always do that. Do that, and then - tell them what exactly? That he remembers the wind knifing across his cheeks, and the night air tasting nothing like triumph, and scarcely being able to keep hold of his wand, his fingers butter-slick with sweat? That, all things considered, guesswork would be better than what he has to offer here? 

Gentle but firm, Draco lifts his hand away. “I wouldn’t know what to say,” he replies, shortly, and sometimes he can’t help but admire his own capacity for understatement. He regrets it almost as soon as he says it. It’s ugly, and childish, and he is forced to watch as the hurt spills across his mother’s face like a stain. 

Then, something seems to realign itself in her expression, something which hardens into a stern resolve. “Don’t deceive yourself into believing that this is what your father would want.” 

She meets his gaze, unblinking. “I suspect he’d rather die.” 

Draco considers this. Lucius, who was determined to secure for his son all of the glory, but none of the grunt-work involved in their calling? Yes - on the whole, she is probably right. His father wouldn’t want to share a cell in Azkaban any more than he wanted to share the burden of doing the Dark Lord’s bidding directly, but then, look where that one got him. 

“I daresay that’s the case,” he tells his mother, faintly. 

“Don’t do this, Draco,” she implores - and for all her fragile beauty, she seems at this moment, as she always has: immovable. Stronger, and more assured than Draco could ever be.  
But at present, so scared. The last thing Draco needs is a mirror of his own anxiety - so he disentangles himself from the covers, and gets out of bed, heading towards the door. 

“Draco -”

“It’s all right, this isn’t a tantrum,” he announces over his shoulder. “I’m just - going to ask the House Elves to make us some tea, okay?” 

“Oh, don’t -” he hears Narcissa say, but elects to ignore it; he needs to get out of here, if only for a minute; clear his head. She makes no attempt to stop him, at any rate. 

He’s still superficially weary: awareness of it clings to him like a thin layer of grime; like yesterday’s clothes which, incidentally, he is still wearing. After hours of hellish wrangling - if there was anything the Order of the Phoenix had on the Death Eaters, it certainly wasn’t efficiency, though perhaps that’s something you don’t have to worry about when you boast the moral highground - at any rate, after hours of this, during which every single member of the Tribunal seemed itching to hex Potter within an inch of his life, Shacklebolt had finally put his foot down. The trial would be resumed the next day. Draco had been granted an unexpected night’s reprieve. Still, all things considered, he’d defy anyone in his situation to feel well-rested. 

It was galling, really. Why _prolong_ the insufferable thing? 

At the time, of course, Draco’s generally acute sense of the farcical had been numbed by large doses of irritation - but now, looking at things afresh, he is overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of his position. Did someone Confund Potter? Would anyone have noticed if they had? 

Speculations like these are infinitely preferable to - well, to more pertinent forms of introspection - so, as he crosses down the main staircase, he keeps himself entertained by coming up with of a number of possible causes for Potter’s recent delusions. As he approaches the kitchen door, he settles on ‘brain damage induced by freak Hippogryff stampede’ as the likeliest explanation, if only for the gratifying element of poetic justice involved. ‘Actually applying for sainthood’ runs close second, but loses out due to being nowhere near as satisfying to contemplate. 

Narcissa catches up with him by the time he reaches the door to the kitchens. “Draco, wait -”  
In a momentary fit of rebelliousness, Draco walks in anyway. 

There are two people waiting inside. If that wasn’t unnerving enough, one of them is actually sitting on the marble counter top, seemingly chatting with the House Elf, and - dear Merlin, that’s _Potter_. He breaks off mid-conversation upon hearing the door open, greeting Draco with a grin that somehow feels both insouciant and forced. As though he just decided that if he’s uncomfortable with this, he’s damn well going to try his hardest to make Draco feel more uncomfortable than him. It’s an awful lot to say in one smile. 

It’s also working. 

“What are you _doing_ here?” demands Draco, horrified. He backs away a couple of steps - seriously considering the prospect of running away now, while he can. 

He focuses, somewhat abstractedly, on the second intruder: a young, rather severe-looking woman in scarlet Auror’s robes, with dark hair scraped back into a flawless ponytail. She blinks back at him, completely impassive. Draco is forced to look away first, which, to all extents and purposes, entails looking back at Potter. 

Potter makes no move to abandon his seat on the table. The way his Councillor’s robes puddle about his knees, revealing hand-knitted, mismatched socks underneath the most disgraceful pair of trainers Draco has ever seen, makes him look closer to an eleven-year-old schoolboy than the second-most powerful wizard in the country. It is a look which, once, Draco was convinced he deliberately cultivated. Now he knows better: it’s never an act; that’s the secret.

“Calm down,” says Potter, and Draco nearly chokes on his indignation. “I’m only here to show your new Auror around the premises.” 

Several possible responses flit through Draco’s head, only to be hastily discarded. Chiefly, there’s _and what makes you such an expert on these_ premises, _Potter_ , but that quite literally hits a tad too close to home. There’s also _go die in a fire, you condescending git_ but, for similar reasons, this too feels inadvisable.  
Boxed in by the pressure of too many things that ought to remain unsaid, he blurts out: “What happened to the old one?” He’s surprised at how much he genuinely wants to know the answer. 

Potter looks a little uncomfortable. “Some of us on the Tribunal suspected - that is to say, we had reason to believe that your behaviour at the trial might have been down to coercion. Your last Auror lost a son during the war. I - we - thought it might be a good idea to send in someone new, with, er, less of a vested interest.” 

“But I _liked_ the old one!” cries Draco, incensed. “I want him back! What did you have to go get him into trouble for?” 

Potter fidgets with the hem of his robe: a gesture so irritating it practically stings. “He’s not in trouble,” he tells Draco. “I was just - making sure.” 

“I _liked_ him,” Draco insists, unwilling to let go of his pique. 

“Really,” says Potter, apparently sceptical. “What was his name, then?” 

Oh. Well. No, wait, Draco knows this one. 

“Marvin,” he says, with relative confidence. Then, a second later, with equal confidence: “Malcolm. Melvin.” 

Potter just looks at him, levelly. “Cadwallader.” 

Draco shrugs, noncommittally. “If you will. I want him back.” 

He eyes Potter with pronounced dislike. It’s such a - such an _imposition_ , this: having him here. Invasive. Surreal. Like flicking through a family photo album, only to suddenly find a full-page spread of a complete stranger, blinking up at you with vague menace. Like catching someone else wearing your favourite shirt. _Get out of my house, Potter._

He feels his mother’s restraining hand at his shoulder. “Perhaps,” she says to Potter, “it would be best if you introduced us to our new guard. Perhaps it would also be best if we moved out of the doorway.” She moves her hand away, seemingly satisfied that Draco has ceased making a scene. She turns to the elf. “Binky, bring us tea in the Blue Room.” 

A few minutes later, they are carefully ensconced within one of the Manor’s many drawing rooms, and Potter is staring at his teacup as though terrified of its contents. Draco is charitable, and assumes this is due to fear of fracturing the delicate china, rather than any kind of suspicion; he did, after all, make short work of the lemon cake without so much as a wince. In some ways, that actually makes it worse: seeing his house and its contents being unenthusiastically manhandled by the murderer of his family fortune, and his government stooge. It feels like the face of things to come. 

The government stooge is named Vivian Henderson. Despite Narcissa’s entreaties, she refuses both the cake and the tea. Draco, who is certain that not only would Cadwallader have accepted graciously, but would have inquired after second helpings, immediately resents her for it. 

Whilst Draco scowls, Narcissa initiates graceful small talk. “So, Ms. Henderson, you say you worked as a member of the magical law enforcement in France? That must have been quite an experience. I’m told the French Aurors are some of the finest in Europe.” 

“My mother’s parents were killed during the first war,” says Henderson, fixing Narcissa with those wide, unblinking eyes. “My family and I left for France the moment we heard about Voldemort’s return.”

Oh, she did that on _purpose_ , thinks Draco, almost pulverizing his square of lemon cake. 

Narcissa, to her credit, hardly flinches. “That was very prudent of your family,” she replies, mildly. 

“’Prudent’ is a good word for it,” says Henderson, almost completely devoid of tone. 

Draco rises suddenly from the sofa; his knee collides against the underside of the table as he does so. The teacups clatter. “Excuse me,” he says.

He gets about as far as the kitchen when he hears footsteps. 

Instinctively, he reaches into the back pocket of his robes, before remembering that he is no longer permitted the use of a wand. Instead, he backs up against the counter in some sort of nonsensical effort to hide. 

“Malfoy -”

Draco jumps so violently that he narrowly avoids braining himself with a hanging colander. But he recognises the voice, and manages to compose himself about a split-second before Potter pokes a head around the door, looking bizarrely expectant. He crosses over to where Draco is standing. Draco takes a further step back. The backs of his knees scrape against the cupboard handles. 

Potter blinks, but remains where he is. “All right, Malfoy. Talk. But you’d better be quick, or Vivian’ll come looking for us.” 

Draco narrows his eyes. “ _What?_ ” 

For a moment, Potter looks confused. This doesn’t seem to deter him for long. “Tell me what’s going on,” he says - commands, virtually - as though his meaning was somehow intuitive. “Obviously there’s something. I’m glad you’ve finally realised I can help you.” 

“You’re - this is - you’re making even less sense than usual, Potter,” says Draco, ashamed to realise he is almost _blustering_ in response. “Exactly why are you accosting me in my own kitchen?” All right, getting better. ‘Accosting’ is a good word; works well as an accusation. 

Potter frowns. “I thought -”

“How novel.” 

“Shut up, Malfoy,” returns Potter, easily. “I thought you wanted to get me to follow you. I thought you were trying to get me away from Vivian, so you could tell me what’s really going on.” The frown deepens. “That _was_ what you were doing, wasn’t it?” 

Under ordinary circumstances, Draco would search for a suitably emphatic way of saying ‘absolutely _not_ , you supercilious cretin’ and leave it at that, but right now he is too busy being completely disgusted. So disgusted, in fact, that it seeps through to his face; Potter even recoils slightly. 

“That wasn’t what you were doing,” he concludes, heavily - deflating, almost. 

Draco finally finds his voice. “What I am _doing_ , Potter, is leaving. Right now.” He makes for the door. 

“Wait.” Potter doesn’t do anything stupid, like try to grab his arm, but he does step in front of Draco, effectively blocking his path. 

“Waiting,” agrees Draco, because it’s not like he has many other options. 

“Back at the trial - are you telling me all of that was genuine? That was _you_?” He looks almost comically bewildered, and Draco would be finding it funny, but he lacks the proper calibration for ‘funny’ right now, so mostly he just finds it tiresome. 

“As opposed to what - a scheming impostor?” he bites back. 

“No, just - a scheme,” says Potter, and okay, in fairness, that’s plausible. 

So plausible that Draco is even willing to deign it with an answer. “No scheme.” 

Potter seems to have difficulty processing this. “Really?” 

“Positively.” 

Potter folds his arms, but otherwise fails to budge. “Why,” he demands. Less of a question, more of an imperative; again, best summary of Draco’s life to date, except he ought to stop thinking that way _right now_. 

“Because I’m not the squalling infant you people still seem to believe I am?” Draco suggests. 

“Because you’re about to lock up my father? Or maybe because it’s the truth.” He spreads out his arms, like an offering; and he is _not_ trembling. (The backs of his knees judder against the cupboard door.) “Pick a reason, Potter - any of them are good.” 

It seems that Potter does indeed take him at his word, because - just like Narcissa, in a sense - he proceeds to ignore the first and last reasons with spectacular aplomb. 

“Your father will have to pay for what he did, whether or not you’re prepared to go down with him,” he tells Draco, with an air of moral superiority that is distinctly new. Although, annoyingly enough, it suits him well. Amazing how this man can veer between overgrown schoolboy and saviour-of-the-wizarding-world in the space of seconds. “I’d really rather that you didn’t.” 

“And for the love of Merlin, Potter, why _is_ that?” It’s almost a plea.

Potter, infuriatingly, shrugs as though the answer is obvious, which it _isn’t_ , it bloody well isn’t. “I owe your mother. I sort of owe you, too.” 

Draco wrinkles his nose. “You owe my mother. _We_ don’t owe each other anything.” Trust Potter to act as though even the very thought of this isn’t distinctly revolting. 

“Actually, I think we do.” Potter smiles - and, oddly, it isn’t even forced; just wryly self-effacing, which is, in some respects, worse. “At the very least, I owe you a wand.” 

It takes effort to get out these next words, but never let it be said that Draco isn’t willing to make sacrifices in pursuit of a goal. “You saved my life. Consider us even.” 

“You saved mine too, so no.” And he is _actually smiling_ , as though this is all quaintly amusing, rather than superbly idiotic - and what, pray tell, ever happened to ‘worst enemies’? 

It is not without a certain pang that Draco realises that hating each other has ceased to be an option. This, he considers, is deeply unfair. 

Whether or not is has also ceased to be a reality is - open to doubt. 

“I have to go now,” he says to the room at large, unpeeling himself from the kitchen counter, and straightening yesterday’s robes. It occurs to him, belatedly, that he must look an absolute wreck. Another layer of humiliation to add to the overall pile, then. 

“Why?” 

“Because, Potter, I’m going to be late for my trial. And, for that matter, so are you.”


	3. Chapter 3

What Malfoy doesn’t realise is that Harry has an ace up his sleeve. Several aces, in fact. Or perhaps, more specifically, several advantages all grouped cumulatively into one ace - each happily enclosed within his sleeve. The point is, Harry is going to _destroy_ this trial. He is going to _annihilate_ the opposition - by which he means Draco Malfoy - and _slaughter_ the proceedings - by which he means ‘calmly present the evidence contradicting the statement of the accused, and respectfully stand down in time for the Minister for Magic to give Draco Malfoy a full acquittal’. He is going to _crush_ all hope of an alternative outcome, by which he means, basically, he is going to win this one. 

And there’s nothing anyone can do to stop him. He’s even learned a non-verbal counterspell to the Silencing Charm. 

As such, he takes his place in the antechamber with an air of disproportionate cheer. This immediately distinguishes him from the rest of his colleagues, who, if anything, are looking decidedly queasy at the prospect of a second hearing. Which, all things considered, is a bit rich, considering _Harry_ is the one who had to suffer pleasantries over cake and confectionery in the name of truth, justice and bureaucracy. If anyone has the right to baulk at proceedings, it’s him. 

Still, before they enter the courtroom, Neville ushers him to one side, and asks if he could maybe - possibly: “Um, tone it down a little this time round? Please, Harry?” 

Harry grins, reassuringly. “If it makes you feel better, I promise I won’t say so much as a word to Malfoy today.” 

“Actually, yes,” says Neville, with considerable resolve. “That does make me feel a lot better.” 

A shrug. “Then you can hold me to it.” 

The lights go up, the Tribunal assembles itself with due dignity, and Harry keeps his promise to the last letter. He doesn’t talk to Malfoy. 

He interrupts Kingsley, as he declares the second half of the hearing to be officially in session, instead. 

“Minister,” says Harry - now standing, because at this point, why not: “In order to clear up some of yesterday’s confusion, there are a couple of witnesses I’d like to call to the stand.” 

He’s not 100% clear on what ‘call to the stand’ means in a literal sense, but it sounds like the kind of thing one would find oneself saying rather frequently in a courtroom - and judging by Kingsley’s dawning look of horror, it has certainly made its impact. 

Feeling a little reckless, he sneaks a look at the press seats in the front row. Mortimer Boot of the _Prophet_ is giving the Tribunal his undivided attention, with a rather mercenary gleam to his eye: as if resolved to devour every morsel of detail, and then some - only to spew them back out again in print, mutilated and unintelligible, no doubt. Rita Skeeter - now of the _Howler_ \- is already dictating in muttered asides towards her Quick Quotes Quill. Pickles Montgomery from the _Portent_ is - well, more or less miles away, still gazing dreamily into the distance, occasionally pausing her contemplation of the ineffable in order to snap her gum - but Harry supposes you can’t please everyone. 

Back in the - er, the stand - Malfoy is looking, well, livid. Not literally, of course - Malfoy is constitutionally incapable of turning any colour other than pink - but the almost- _snarl_ with which Harry is confronted is enough to ensure that the message gets through, and also, almost enough to make this worth it. 

Kingsley, meanwhile, regains his composure. “That’s very thorough of you, Councillor Potter,” he says, more or less mildly. “All right. Bring them in.” 

“Objection!” tries Malfoy, but nobody listens to him. 

“In that case,” says Harry, “I’d like to call on my first witness: Mo- er, I mean, Myrtle.” He clears his throat. “Myrtle?” 

At this, there is a thin, lugubrious wailing, intensifying in both volume and pitch until it washes across the entire hall. Audience members’ eyes snap confusedly to and fro, in an attempt to source it. Even Professor McGonagall looks taken aback as the witness stand floods with a pale, ethereal light: staining her face with its pallor, and drowning the blaze of the torches. 

All things considered, it is quite an entrance. 

Myrtle, who seems to have done up her hair for the occasion, preens. “You called?” 

With what amounts to nigh-preternatural restraint, Harry suppresses a victorious grin. “I did indeed. Myrtle, I’d like to ask you a few questions with regards to the material facts of the case.” 

It had been relatively simple, getting Myrtle on board. Though justifiably reluctant at first, she had brightened considerably when he pointed out that things could scarcely get worse for their mutual, much-maligned acquaintance - and besides, it wasn’t as if he could arrest Malfoy _twice_. Having capitulated to this logic, she had agreed to answer whatever Harry asked. 

He asks about mirrors, and bathrooms, and _Sectumpsempra_. She doesn’t spare the details. In fact, much of her commentary is rather illuminating. Harry doesn’t quite remember having looked particularly _savage_ or _murder-bent_ at the time, but this, as it turns out, is very much a matter of interpretation. Then again, so is law; he’s not really in any position to complain. 

That said, he certainly is in a position to arbitrate. Thus: “Okay, that’s great, Myrtle,” he says, cutting across her gleefully lurid description of Malfoy lying suspended in a pool of blood. “But actually, we’re more focused on what happened before I came into the room. Would you describe the defendant as particularly… collected? I mean, before I - before the attack?” 

“Wouldn’t say that!” she beams back, collaborating. “He was an absolute _mess_ at the time. Poor thing.” 

Malfoy levels her a markedly sullen look, but manages to keep his mouth shut. 

Harry swallows his smile. “Can you tell us what you mean by that?” 

“Oh, he kept going on and on about his family - about how they’d all be dead if he didn’t go through with the plan. How, you know, _he’d_ take revenge on all three of them. It was really sad! I cried buckets the first time he told me all about it.” Her grin, ever broad, grows broader. “Come to think of it, so did he! _Buckets_.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” says Harry, who - well, doesn’t. “So,” he presses, “what you’re saying is that he was never all that keen on pandering to Voldemort.” (Shudders spiral predictably across the courtroom.) “Once the novelty wore off, that is. That’s, ah, your impression?”

“Of course. He was so very _tortured_ ,” pronounces Myrtle, wistfully. 

“Literally, in fact. Or at least, under threat of it. Am I right?” 

“Oh yes!”

Harry turns back to the Tribunal. “I’d call that pretty damning evidence,” he says, blandly. “You know. For anyone who wanted to see him locked up.” 

“I would agree,” says Kingsley, with a distinctive edge to his tone - something a little more than frustration, which Harry finds puzzling. “And seeing as the statement is so conclusive, I believe it renders the need for further questioning irrelevant. Wouldn’t you say so, Councillor Potter?” 

“I - yes?” Although why this _insistence_ is anyone’s guess. Surely Kingsley doesn’t want to see Malfoy face Azkaban any more than Harry does? 

“Oi, Potter!” Malfoy has finally found his voice, and seems to be using it to exercise his incredible powers of self-sabotage. “Why don’t you get Myrtle to tell the Tribunal about how I tried to cast the Cruciatus curse on you that night? Or would that detract from the _conclusiveness_ of the case?” 

At this point, Harry has given up on gauging his motives. All he knows is that Malfoy is hell-bent on securing himself a life-sentence - and as such, their aims are, as always, antithetical, almost reassuringly so. All things considered, it makes everything that much simpler.

Or at least, it is simple to say: “I’d like to remind people that this isn’t a regular trial. If Draco Malfoy were being charged for the attempted use of the Cruciatus Curse, he’d be guilty several times over. But he’s not, because we were at _war_ , and he’s here to answer for war crimes. I don’t think anyone would have it any other way. In fact, I’m willing to bet that a few people on this side of the room cast their fair share of Unforgivables the past year.” 

He looks Professor McGonagall straight in the eye. She raises her chin one brittle inch higher, and - was that a wince? With the edge of a smile, he tries to convey that no, he’s _not_ trying to make a martyr of himself; he’s just - proving a point, and -

“Did _you_?” 

It is also reassuring to know that - whatever the fate of old Headmasters, and new regimes, and uncomplicated schoolboy grudges - Draco Malfoy’s talent for striking at uncomfortable truths remains unimpaired. He’s pale and defiant, hands flexed spiderlike on the arms of his chair, symmetrical; both words are somehow weighted more than they ought to be, like pebbles dropped one after the other. Likewise, there’s something a little jagged - unpolished - about him: something that’s almost thoroughly alien to Harry - or was before this morning, and seeing him bleary and rumpled, in yesterday’s robes. 

His hair is sticking up a little, at the edges. He must have botched the drying charm. 

Harry is even prepared to respond, Neville’s injunction be damned, but - luckily, upon consideration - Percy Weasley gets there before him.

“Councillor, _don’t_ answer that,” he says, in a tone far more tailored than Harry feels is strictly necessary, because _really_ , he - probably wasn’t going to give him the truth. 

“Right,” agrees Harry, who can more or less _feel_ his priorities slide askew. “Er. Next witness?” 

“Send them in,” says Kingsley, short and unhurried. Harry catches him send a quelling glance towards his Undersecretary, though. 

Well. Anyway. 

The next witness is ushered in; Myrtle is duly ushered out. And, for that matter, ushered out with relative ease - Harry had expected more of a fuss. As it is, there is nary a comment about the insensitivity of the audience for staring at the dead, or any unusual amounts of wailing: she’s on her best behaviour today. It’s odd, but this is the point at which the fact that Myrtle _actually does_ want to help Malfoy hits, and hits inexplicably at that. 

(Harry wants to help Malfoy too, but that’s scarcely the same; he isn’t doing this out of choice.)

It’s funny, how many people are doing this out of choice, though. Have done, even. How does one boy, not overly brave or likable, manage to garner so much - fidelity? 

_Anyway_. 

“Unfortunate choices might have been made, but Draco Malfoy was a victim of this war, same as the rest of us,” Harry declares, taking charge of the lull. “And to prove it, I’d like to call on my next witness, Luna Lovegood.”

Oh, and Malfoy’s _face_. Would it be bad form to enjoy this? Probably, yes. Almost definitely, yes. 

Luna gives the audience an absentminded wave as she strolls straight into the hall, serenely disregarding the flare of the cameras. She takes her place opposite Malfoy with equal sangfroid - and it’s fine; she had _told_ Harry it would be fine, and though he had believed her, he believes her all the more as of now. They could very well be taking tea together. Or engaging in excruciating small talk, like Harry had to do with Narcissa, while they both waited for Draco to shower and dress - except unlike Harry, Luna looks no more out of place than she would anywhere else.

“Hello Harry,” she says, blithely unconcerned by the scrutiny of both Council and crowd. 

“Er. Hi Luna,” he says - with some lingering uncertainty as to whether first names are the correct mode of address in a trail over which you are one of the chief arbitrators. A surreptitious backward glance proves that a significant chunk of the Council seem to share in his uncertainty. He clears his throat. “Just to give us some background - Luna spent several months imprisoned at Malfoy Manor, at the height of the war. Luna, did you manage to see Draco Malfoy at all during this time?” 

“Oh yes,” she says, unhurriedly - prompting yet another hastily-suppressed blur of commentary from the crowd, who seem intent on crowing at every new revelation. “Quite a bit, actually. I mean, it was his house, after all.” 

“Right. And when you saw him - just, can you give us a picture of what he looked like? Good? Bad? Cackling with glee at the prospect of further slaughter?” 

Malfoy flinches at the sarcasm of this last - _perfect_. 

Luna shakes her head, seriously. “I wouldn’t say there was cackling, Harry. Most of the time, he looked like he was going to be violently ill. I don’t think he liked what was going on at the Manor - he never seemed like he really wanted to be there at all.” 

“So you’d agree with the theory that he was acting under duress.” 

A sad smile. “I think if he’d had a choice, he would have been anywhere in the world other than there.” 

At this, Harry feels a hot burst of guilt. Malfoy was by no means the only one. Still, Luna flashes him a reassuring look; bolstered by this, he renews his line of questioning. 

“You say you saw him a lot. Am I right in assuming he spent a lot of time taking care of the prisoners?” 

Take _that_ , Malfoy. Everyone knows you weren’t trusted with doing anything even remotely megalomaniacal or evil - not that you’d have chosen to, if given the opportunity. Because you’re too innocent for that. So _there_. 

“He came in the feed us sometimes,” allows Luna. 

Inspiration strikes. “Sometimes, acts of resistance can be small - but that doesn’t make them insignificant. Tell me, Luna, did you ever notice Malfoy doing his best to help in whatever subtle way he could? Talking to you? Bringing you extra food, maybe?” 

Luna frowns - not in a displeased way, but in a manner distinctly Hermione-ish - as if confronted by a badly-constructed segment of a homework essay that she’s determined to rework, or contemplating the prospect of correcting a Professor. “Well… not really, no. Mostly it was just the same old slop, and he was mostly silent. But I suppose he probably didn’t think of that at the time. He seemed fairly wrapped up in his own thoughts, I’d say.” 

“Right,” says Harry, suddenly sensing that redirection might be prudent. 

Damn it all to hell. Why does Malfoy have to be so predictably _awful_? 

“Actually, now that I remember, there were a couple of times when he forgot to bring us food at all…”   
Harry leaps across that particular speculation with all the haste of which he is capable. You and your complete lack of fellow feeling win this round, Malfoy. “Er, thanks Luna. But, moving on to our escape from the manor - do you think there’s a chance that he might have, sort of, snapped to his senses? That he actually might have helped us all escape, if only passively?” 

She meets his eyes. To his immense relief, there’s no judgement there - and less surprise, although that in itself probably figures. Still, he can’t quite seem to shake off the distinct impression that he’s being given some kind of rebuke. “I don’t know, Harry,” she says, softly. “I think that’s something only he can tell us.” 

Harry swallows. A sidelong glance at Malfoy proves about as unproductive as he’d expected: his face is the picture of forced neutrality, and might as well be carved from exceptionally pale granite for all that it reveals of his mindset. 

“Thanks, Luna,” he says, eventually. “Sorry to make you go through all that again - particularly in front of all these people.” 

“Oh, it’s no problem,” she says, airily - and oddly, once again, he can tell that she means it. “Talking about it doesn’t make it worse.” 

She gives another idle wave at the spectators - a fractional movement that dissolves into sharp light as the cameras erupt once more. Harry approaches the newly-vacated stand. 

Somehow, the ensuing silence seems less accusatory than Malfoy’s unblinking pallor. 

Admittedly, Harry isn’t exactly a master orator under the best of circumstances - and, under _these_ circumstances in particular, he feels his confidence waning by the second. Nonetheless, he owes it to - to the truth, to justice probably - to _Malfoy_ , maybe? no, that’s stupid - to _something_ \- to soldier on through the stage fright. 

As such, he begins to tell. Well. The truth. Frankly, it’s the least he can do. 

“Before my friends and I escaped from the manor,” he begins, “Malfoy and I got into a fight.” Wait - no. Wrong tack. Change tack. “What I mean to say is, there was a struggle. The Death Eaters had taken our wands - that is, Malfoy had our wands. For a while, the two of us grappled, and I managed to grab what he was holding; what happened later as a result of that is obviously common knowledge.” Gaining confidence now. “But the thing is, I’m pretty sure Malfoy didn’t actually put up a fight.” He shakes his head. “Look, I’ve _fought_ with Malfoy before. He’s a coward who wouldn’t hesitate to kick a man while he’s down, but he’s certainly not averse to doing serious damage. This was different. This was easy, and it shouldn’t have been - and it leaves you wondering why.”

As it turns out, he was wrong. Malfoy is proving himself to be quite capable of turning, not merely pink, but a faint, nauseated shade of green, and it is then that Harry realises that he’s finally - _finally_ \- struck on a vein of truth. 

“The thing is, I don’t think he wanted to win. I think he held back - not enough to counteract the exchange of wands, but enough to make it matter. Enough to _let_ me escape with what I needed to win against Voldemort.” 

He flings the name at the crowd deliberately this time, and it knifes through their uncertainty with all the force he’d intended. Speculation crests across the room in waves. In the midst of it all, he looks at Malfoy, and in a moment of recklessness, Harry flouts his promise to Neville. 

“Isn’t that right, Draco?” 

Speculation fades to a hush, as every eye in the room fixes on Malfoy. 

Who crumbles under the scrutiny. For a moment, he seems to attempt to speak, but whatever he is about to say is arrested in the face of what looks to be the sheer horror of having to make a decision. Panic flares in his eyes, in a way that - along with the furiously smoothed-down hair - makes him all of a sudden look exceedingly young. Harry’s bites the inside of his cheek in what almost feels like sympathy, as he realises that it wasn’t the truth he struck - or, at least, not entirely: whatever change he might have hoped to elicit, it wasn’t this. Not the defeated way in which Malfoy stares at his hands.   
Not this messy, inconclusive surrender.

“I,” Malfoy says eventually, fisting his hands in his robes. “I. I request a recess.” 

And although Harry is unclear on whether or not this is the correct terminology, it doesn’t seem wise to press the point.


	4. Chapter 4

Back in the confines of Malfoy Manor, Draco _fumes_. That wasn’t an interrogation – it was a dissection. Draco, dead on the countertop, being ripped open and tabulated by Potter - and since he was never any good at Potions, he didn’t even have the grace to be delicate about it, damn everything. How dare he parade the entire misappropriated story of - of that night - before an entire courtroom of simpletons, war heroes and Weasleys? The very audacity of it appals. The insolence of it ought not to surprise him. It’s an insult, an imposition, and sheer torture all looped into one giant braid of _atrocity_ , and he is _tired_ , confound it all - he’s tired, and he needs there to be some kind of end in sight, _something_. 

For want of anything better to do - and in the knowledge that it’s the only place his mother wouldn’t think to look for him - he barricades himself in the kitchen to sulk. Maybe there’s a lemon cake there he can _stab_. 

Resolute, he bursts through the door, thoroughly prepared to banish any house elf he stumbles upon with snarls or the threat of socks. Wild-eyed and unkempt as he is, he doubts it would even have to go as far as verbal admonishment; any right-thinking individual would scatter at the first sight of that appalling thing he _knows_ his fringe is doing. 

As it turns out, the kitchen’s only inhabitant is one he does not immediately recognise. It is only after he gathers together the tattered threads of his recollection that he realises this is not in fact some kind of terrifying intruder, but Auror Henderson, the new official assigned to him earlier today. Right, yes. Her palpable personal bias hadn’t struck him as exactly professional on introduction - although when she doesn’t immediately bolt at the sight of him and his new, experimental coiffure, he’s forced to re-evaluate his opinion of her resilience. 

In fact, she hardly reacts at all - save with faint surprise, as she looks up from her plate of toast. Unshakeable, these Auror types. 

“Mr. Malfoy.” 

“I mean, you can’t just _ask_ someone that in court, can you?” he explodes at her, with no further preamble. “You can’t just - question their intentions! Not when they’ve already, quite categorically, stated that they are most definitely _guilty of all charges!_ You can’t just try to _acquit someone against their will?_ ” 

There is a significant pause, in which any right-thinking individual would have answered _no_. 

However, Draco has not been graced with a right-thinking conversational partner. Draco has been given a stone-faced, implacable _jail warden_ , who blinks neutrally, and only says: “… Would you like some toast, Mr. Malfoy.” 

Well, actually. 

He takes a slice from the plate, and crams it whole into his mouth. “Mmff - between all of them, they’re -” he pauses to swallow “- turning the entire system of magical justice into something reprehensible! Meaningless! It’s an utter joke - and what’s worse is, it’s all on me, and _my life_! And by ‘them’, by the way, I mean your immediate superior - by which I mean Potter, who I’m assuming is your superior. He seems pretty intent on acting superior to the vast bulk of the wizarding world, after all.” 

Another blink. The blank expression on her face appears to peel at the edges a little. But, politely. 

“I mean, who does he think he is, anyway? For the love of Merlin, what’s he trying to _prove_?” 

Finally, she speaks up. “I only know what I’ve read in the papers, Mr. Malfoy.” 

“’Rochdale Wizard’s Big Toe Inexplicably Morphs into Chocolate Éclair?’” 

“Not _The Portent_.” Politely. Neutrally. Argh.

He takes a moment to take a breath. Then, edgily, he takes another slice of toast, and remembers that this is, to all intents and purposes, a conversation. “Er. Not - not Mr. Malfoy. Call me Draco, please.” 

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t hold with allowing an Auror to dispense with these crucial formalities – but these days, the alternative brings nothing to mind but the courtroom. From the look on her face, it was an unintentionally effective move; she looks a little less sour, at least. More patronising than anything else, frankly, but at this point he’ll take pity over antagonism any day. 

“Vivian,” she says, tightly - as if Potter hadn’t already announced that, and as if Draco is in the habit of addressing random acquaintances by their given names. Then: “What exactly would be wrong with being acquitted?” 

The noise that emerges from his mouth, in retrospect, probably doesn’t sound particularly human. His Auror, who has presumably undergone all kinds of hideous endurance training in order to achieve her current position, actually flinches in response. 

This doesn’t stop him from making it again. And then once again, for good measure.   
And then, just as she is starting to look overtly concerned: “Because I’m trying to take responsibility for my actions, okay! _Not_ that it’s at all Potter’s business.” 

“And going to Azkaban will achieve that?” She sounds genuinely curious. 

“I don’t know,” he says, bitterly, reaching for another slice of toast. “You were the one on the right side of the war. You tell me.” 

“I really don’t think this is about me,” she says. 

Which is all very well. But not everybody can be an _emotionless piece of Ministry-mandated furniture_ , so Draco doesn’t consider that one particularly helpful. With an air of asperity, he finishes her toast. 

-

The next day, prior to the trial, Harry takes the time to meet up with Ginny and George for coffee and ice cream in Diagon Alley - a ritual which, in the aftermath of all that had happened since the Battle of Hogwarts, Ginny had insisted on formalising. 

“We are not going to become one of those couples who break up and force their entire group of friends to break with them,” she had said. “And we’re not going to avoid each other and make things excruciating for everyone else.” 

Harry, remembering Cho, had been disposed to see the wisdom in this. 

George had been an unexpected - though certainly not unwelcome - addition to these regular tete-a-tetes. Secretly, Harry suspects that Ginny is seizing on any excuse to get him out of the house - and the shop - in order to provide a distraction. Which makes sense. Of course, when the distraction entails dissecting his recent decisions with completely undue scrutiny, he’s inclined to be a little less keen. 

“You’re trying to turn Malfoy into something he’s not,” Ginny tells Harry, after Harry has related the rather disastrous events of the trial, up to and including the bit where Kingsley had taken him to one side post-recess, and somewhat ludicrously taken it upon himself to warn him that he was putting his public reputation at risk - as if threatening him with the prospect of less media attention was any kind of negative incentive. 

“Am not,” he says, more out of habit than anything. He’s started having to contradict nearly everything any given person has to say about him and Malfoy. “… What?” 

“I’m not saying he deserves Azkaban - what I’m saying is he’s not _Snape_. He wasn’t secretly plotting Voldemort’s downfall. He wasn’t even trying to help the three of you so that _you_ could go on plotting Voldemort’s downfall. You never saw him at school, Harry, but I did. He was like a ghost - worse than a ghost, even; you never saw Nick just hovering in the corridor whilst the Carrows cursed first years.” 

George gives a grunt of agreement. “Greasy little wart.” 

Harry lowers his ice cream spoon, mutinously. “So you’re saying he deserves what he gets?”

“If what he gets is Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect 200 Sickles, Report Immediately to Your Friendly Dementor Warden?” says George. “I mean, honestly, yes.” 

Ginny rolls her eyes at the both of them. “Harry, do me a favour and actually listen to the words I’m _saying_ , instead of the ones you’re _hearing_ , okay? I don’t want to see him prosecuted any more than you do. There’d be no point. But you can’t keep acting as if he’s some kind of martyr - it’s not going to help anyone.” 

What Harry wishes he could say is simple. Things weren’t mean to _be_ this way; he’s supposed to _save_ people with _heroics_ , not wind up strangled by miles of red tape. And, if he’s being perfectly honest, things with Malfoy weren’t meant to end this way either. Malfoy was supposed to escape with a warning, and then carry on being quietly grateful to Harry, Ron and Hermione for the rest of his life. Perhaps they’d exchange polite nods every time they encountered each other in the street, satisfied with the knowledge that, although they’d never be friends, they’d never be able to hate each other anymore. Perhaps they’d just never speak again, out of mutual embarrassment. Either way, there’ll be some form of closure. 

What he actually says is this: “I just – want to make sure to tie up all the loose ends. Malfoy is a loose end. There won’t be any - justice - to what’s been done to him unless he gets off. I’m trying to get him off, okay?” 

This last part, he exclaims, frustrated. And, in retrospect, perhaps a little too loudly. They are definitely attracting more attention from the rest of the shop than is necessarily comforting. 

“Mate,” says George, shaking his head. “There are some things I’d be better off not knowing.” 

“Get him off for _attempted murder_ , thanks, George -”

“Harry,” interrupts Ginny. “I love you dearly. But you realise that this is exactly why we broke up. Ever since you destroyed Voldemort, it’s as if you see the rest of our lives as one big foregone conclusion. And it’s the same with Malfoy. You’re trying to make him fit into the right kind of story, when he’s just… not good enough for that.” 

At this, George breaks in with: “I thought you broke up because Ginny found out she looks exactly like your Mu-” and at this, Ginny whacks George over the back of the head. 

“I mean, I’m guessing you had children’s names picked out already,” she continues, breezily, as George rubs reproachfully at his scalp. “Didn’t you? Don’t lie. I bet they were all _awful_.” 

Harry mutters something into his napkin about how he wouldn’t call James Remus Dobby Potter-Weasley _awful_ , exactly. 

They quickly proceed to safer topics, mostly courtesy of George, who has a whole host of improbable stories from work. He and Ron are collaborating on a new catalogue, and business seems to be booming - as much as, postwar, anything can - which is good to hear, honestly it is, but is no-one concerned with the fact that everyone but Harry seems to have gone insane? 

Well. Everyone but Harry and Ginny, probably. Which is nothing new. 

At the end of lunch, Harry regards her, fondly. “You’re probably right about Malfoy. Where did you get so smart?”

Ginny gives him an eloquent look. “I’m sure in your head that must have sounded like a compliment.” 

“Oh. Right, yeah. Sorry.”

-

When next the gates of Malfoy Manor open, it is not to welcome another group of Ministry officials to escort Draco to trial. It is, in fact, in order to admit someone with whom he never expected - or hoped - to have any kind of prolonged interaction again. 

Hermione Granger.

There is a self-assurance to her that was never quite absent back in the old days at school, but that seems to have found new expression in every facet of her appearance. She bears herself with the absolute dignity of a noble from one of the wizarding world’s purest bloodlines, to the point where he feels shocked into cordiality from the outset - even going so far as to hold open the door for her as they enter the northerly Ornamental Swords room. She also bristles with strength of will so palpable that he’d be genuinely terrified to so much as mention the former observation, for fear of evisceration. Narrow, clever eyes take in every aspect of his presumably rumpled appearance. 

But honestly, how is it that Potter and his ridiculous cronies manage to look so very authoritative these days? As if war bled all the _awkward_ out of them? He’s almost terrified of encountering gangly, freckled Ron Weasley these days, lest he turn out to have inexplicably morphed into some sort of _god_. 

“Let me guess,” he says, careful to inject his tone with an appropriate amount of derision. 

“You’re here to get me to capitulate to Potter’s feckless attempts to humiliate me in court.” 

Granger eyes a silver-plated sabre hanging opposite with a certain degree of trepidation. It is with a jolt that Draco realises he’s using his patented ‘speaking-to-a-mudblood’ voice, which is something that probably ought to have him horrified, given the circumstances. But then, if anything’s going to persuade him to abandon his pride this late in the game, political sensitivity certainly isn’t it. This is garden-variety derision, not regression to the idiocy of his mid-adolescence. 

Although. He’s willing to concede that old habits die hard. Case in point: she’s still regarding him with the same amount of affection she might reserve for a one of the pickled slimy things in Professor Snape’s store cupboard. Or an accidental comma splice. He’s not sure what to expect - besides potentially another punch on the nose. 

Her response, however, when it comes, is deceptively mild. “May I sit?” 

Okay, so she’s not going to punch him. Instead, they’re going to perch on antique armchairs and stare at each other like loons, or actual acquaintances. “Please.” 

“I’m not here to lobby on Harry’s behalf,” she says, eventually, which is - bemusing. “I mean, I don’t want you to go to Azkaban either, but the chances of that happening are laughable, so I daresay neither of us has anything to worry about. As for Harry - he doesn’t know why you’re making this stand, or to what extent you’ve changed, and to be perfectly honest I don’t think it matters to him.” 

“It matters to _me_ ,” protests Draco, rather indignantly. 

“Well, yes,” she concedes. “And, unfortunately, it matters to me too. I need to know how far you’re willing to take this.” 

A contemplative pause. Draco isn’t Slytherin for nothing; he can at least tell when someone is trying to rope him into a bargain. Though he can’t imagine what on earth she could possibly want from him. Frankly, he’d just assumed she’d come visiting in order to rail at him, and was just being shy about it - which, in retrospect, had also been unlikely. 

“Try me,” he says, with completely false confidence. “Name your request, Granger.” 

She responds at once. “A sincere public apology for your actions during the war, including your behaviour towards Muggleborns at school. And a pledge to do better in future.” 

Malfoy nearly chokes. Then, laughing: “And trade one kind of humiliation for another?”  
It’s the wrong thing to say. 

“Malfoy, there are limits,” says Granger, darkly. 

“To what?” 

“To how much I’ll endure from you before I get up and leave.”

She’s disgusted by him; that much is evident. Worse, though: it’s mingled with a specifically adult kind of pity - the sort that’s cloying and offensive all at once. He’s seen that look before on - Merlin, he’s seen it on Dumbledore. The realisation is almost crushingly mortifying. 

“Get to the point, Granger.” It emerges over-enunciated, clipped and alliterative. Under any other circumstances, he’d be proud of the delivery. Under these, he’s more concerned with just making her can it with the preamble. 

She looks at him, steadily - and it is at this moment that Draco becomes acutely aware that they are sitting in a room full of weapons. Albeit decorative ones. “You know, I don’t think you even realise it?” 

He feels himself grow ruffled under her gaze. “Realise _what_.” 

“Realise how much power you still have.” She says it plainly, as if it is the only _obvious_ conclusion to draw from his recent murder trial. 

When his look doesn’t prompt her to elaborate, he says, perplexed: “On bail?” 

“On the stand.” She folds her arms, still regarding him closely. “In full view of all wizarding Britain - yes, Malfoy, you have _power_ , and at the moment, I shudder to imagine what you’re going to do with it.” An impatient toss of the head. “People want so very badly to sympathise with you. Nice pureblood boy, all that wasted potential… you’re practically a symbol of lost youth.” 

He feels his lip curl, despite himself. “And they show this fellow feeling via - what, house arrest? People have been actively campaigning to see my father Kissed, Granger. Maybe I’ve just been too busy _defending myself in court_ to notice any parades held in my honour lately.” 

“Who said anything about your father?” She shakes her head. “No - people would be delighted to see him hang himself on a rope of his own making. It’s the same with all the known Death Eaters; they’re easy to hate. But, have you noticed? They’re the only ones people are blaming.” 

His confusion must show on his face, because she rolls her eyes. 

“Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t realised that things are heading back to exactly the way they were. People are happy to wax lyrical about all of Voldemort’s atrocities -” here, she notices him flinch “- oh, don’t be pathetic - but catch anyone admitting they were complicit! All those people who turned a blind eye, and let Muggleborns be tortured on their watch. All those families who didn’t want things to go _too_ far, but still wished someone would do something about all those filthy _mudbloods_ taking up space in wizarding society.” 

Draco opens his mouth to speak. And closes it again. He feels utterly unqualified to comment on any of this, and is fairly positive he’d be shot down in flames the instant he attempted to voice a syllable. 

Still, he makes an attempt. “Okay, so you’re a dangerous social agitator, and all people are monsters. Sorry, this concerns me - how?” 

She narrows her eyes. “It concerns you, because you’re about to get off scot free. No, don’t look at me like that - it won’t be for want of trying, but it’ll happen all the same. Whatever mistakes you might have made, the Tribunal will admit you weren’t given any choice in the matter. And people will take comfort in that, because it’s true - and because it’s true, they won’t ever question it further. The war happened because Death Eaters forced people: case closed. No need to change anything. No need to interrogate the way we think, as long as no-one’s delivered a guilty verdict.” 

Draco feels a muscle in his jaw slide. Anger coils in his gut, hot and intractable. Even if what she’s saying is still, quite frankly, somewhere in the realms of incomprehensible, one particular insult rankles more than the rest of all the verbiage combined. She seems to spot that too; her shoulders automatically square, as if she’s settling in for a fight. 

He is more than willing to fight this. 

“Insult my intelligence all you like, Granger,” he says. “Peddle conspiracy theories. But _never suggest_ that I didn’t have any option in any of the ludicrously stupid things I did at school, because _I was making choices every step of the way_.” 

A pause. To his annoyance, this doesn’t appear to faze her. 

“Choices you regret?” she inquires steadily. 

Draco scoffs. “Oh, only _infinitely_.” 

She nods. “Then apologise. Let people know that just because you’re not getting a prison sentence doesn’t mean you’re letting yourself off the hook.” 

No. 

Something deep within him rebels at the very notion. His stomach gives another sickly jolt at the prospect of kowtowing to the moral sanctimony of the Tribunal: of - of lowering himself, _and by extension, his family_ , before the very people who won’t even give him the courtesy of a verdict - and he thought he’d abandoned pride somewhere down the line amidst all the horror, he truly thought he had, but - 

“No deal,” he hears himself growl. 

Her jaw sets, and she hates him, truly she does. “I wasn’t looking to strike a deal, Malfoy. I was making a request.” 

“Denied.” 

Once again, she narrows her eyes - as if he’s a particularly stubborn Arithmancy equation she’s attempting to parse. Then, with insufferable placidity, she says: “You regret what happened… but you won’t apologise?” 

There’s a roaring in his ears. Abruptly, he stands. The armchair gives a longsuffering creak at such mishandling, which, with remarkable self-possession, he proceeds to ignore. “Thank you for visiting, Granger. You’ve outstayed your welcome.” 

“Malfoy, I’m trying to show you how you can make amends -”

“Don’t you dare patronise me. Anything but that.” 

“Do you really think I’d be this honest if I were trying to _patronise_ you?” 

They’re both standing now - circling each other like duellists. 

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do. All I know is that I’m not going to let either you or Potter ruin my family!” 

Hands balled at her side into fists, she exhales angrily. “Your family ruined itself, Malfoy. I was giving you a way out.” 

“Apologies, Granger. Turns out I’d rather - what was it? Hang myself on a rope of my own making.” Which feels very final and cutting, and Draco could almost be proud of that particular quip, were it not likely she’ll come back with a massively wittier rejoinder. 

As it turns out, though, she’s not the sort to wrestle for the last word. Or, if she is, her final retort is lost in the enraged flounce of her departure, as she disappears in a flurry of indignation and hair.


	5. Chapter 5

What exactly is it again that ordinary people do on their weekends when they haven’t been stationed to guard the country manor of their ex-nemeses-turned-captives? Harry couldn’t say. But then, Harry is currently busy brushing peacock feathers out of his robes. 

Apparently, one thing people - ordinary or otherwise - do not do on weekends is hold Special Tribunal sessions. Hence, Malfoy has gained two more days’ grace in which to rethink his patently abysmal trial strategy - just as Harry has blithely jettisoned about as much peace of mind as it is probably humanly possible to lose. He’s unsure whether the fact that he’s here of his own volition is cause or effect as far as this is concerned, but he’s willing to bet that most of his friends would be delighted to voice their opinions as to which it might be - which, honestly, could be the reason he’s here in the first place. 

Ginny’s lecture seems to have chased all other thoughts to the back of his head. He is willing to admit that he is becoming rapidly obsessed with the prospect of acquitting Draco Malfoy. Or, failing that, with clarifying exactly why it seemed so pressing at the time - why it _still_ seems pressing, in fact, even in the face of about a million gratuitous roadblocks. It doesn’t help, of course, that most of them stem from the man in question - because frankly, some people are awful at being rescued. Malfoy had been nothing short of delighted to accept his help in the face of being burned to death. Why is being locked in a cell for life suddenly so different? 

Maybe the best he can hope for is a return to the status quo. If things return back to normal between him and Malfoy, this would certainly qualify as tying up the loose ends. The trouble is, the only status quo they have to fall back on is the one where they hurl insults and hexes at each other at the slightest hint of eye contact. 

The Malfoy grounds are lovely, though. Very picturesque. They’d probably be even lovelier if they weren’t attached to the house in which his friends had been held hostage. 

This might actually be the reason why Malfoy insisted on going outdoors in the first place. 

As a faint breeze stirs the fringe of expertly-sculpted foliage lining the garden path, it occurs to Harry that this would make for perfect Quidditch weather - which, in turn, would eliminate the need for the painful silence that seems to have settled insistently between them. Malfoy has spent the entire morning looking bizarrely on edge, as if expecting Harry to arrest him again on the spot - caution that would be far more understandable if Harry had done anything today other than greet him unenthusiastically, and proceed to say virtually nothing else for two hours straight. It’s almost a shame Malfoy’s forbidden to use a broom as part of the conditions of his bail; losing at Quidditch might not do anything to appease his temper, but it might at least force a little conversation. 

He decides to make an effort. 

“Good day for Quidditch,” he remarks, as casually as he can. “If, you know, you could play Quidditch.” 

Wow. Sensitive, appropriate and topical. This is such a disaster. 

“Curl up and die, Potter,” contributes Malfoy, idly, from several paces ahead of him. 

There’s really no method of responding to that other than ‘fair enough’, and Harry refuses to ‘fair enough’ him on principle. Instead, he strides a little faster so that they’re keeping pace. 

“That sounded almost normal,” he says, mildly. “Going to call me names and break my nose again too?” 

He’d pitched that one at ‘nostalgic’; it’s not his fault that they’ve so little of substance to reminisce over. Or that Malfoy flinches at the comment. 

“I’m wandless, you monumental oaf,” Malfoy says, caustically, palms held aloft in demonstration. “What are you going to accuse me of - bludgeoning you to death with a lavender bush?” 

Nonplussed as he is, Harry is almost startled into a laugh. It’s the genuine indignation that sells it. Anyone would think that it was, in fact, some other Malfoy who once violently kneed him in the stomach after insulting his parents for five minutes straight. This curt, miserable shadow of a man bears little resemblance to the poisonous twerp who threw tantrums on the Quidditch pitch - that is, right up until he’s riled, at which point it’s wands at dawn. Harry finds himself, perversely, almost wanting to tease more hostility out of him: anything to shake this stalemate. 

Of course, there’s also the part where they’re both ostensibly adults. One way or another, they’re going to have to find some other way of interacting. 

“You’re the one so desperate to have committed a war crime,” he points out. 

“We’re not at war now. It’d just be garden-variety murder.” 

Harry looks back towards the manor. “Want to head back inside? I’ll make us tea, and then it can be kitchen-variety murder.” After all, Malfoy looks no less dejected outside than in. If there’s anything he’s learned from Molly Weasley, though, it’s that there are very few tensions a boiling kettle can’t soothe. 

“You can have tea. I refuse to let you make me tea,” decides Malfoy, ungenerously. “We’re not _tea friends_.” 

This, nonsensical as it is, does nonetheless carry the ring of truth. The fact is, this is awkward. This is never going to stop being awkward. They might as well just keep walking. 

Still.

“How are you holding up, anyway?” he tries. 

Malfoy isn’t looking quite as terrible as he had a couple of days ago - which is not to say that defeat isn’t stamped across his every feature, just that he’s starting to look slightly less consumptive about it. Harry hopes that doesn’t mean he’s settling into the idea of it. 

That said, there’s almost a layer of the usual ice to Malfoy’s expression as he rounds on him. “I don’t have to submit to your interrogation, Potter. Not after you _reduced_ me before an entire court of Gryffindors!” 

It’s - easier, at least - than watching him give up, even if it isn’t necessarily helpful. 

“By telling the truth,” says Harry, flatly. “And we’re not at school anymore.” 

“By telling _your_ truth.” He lifts his chin. “And that’s hardly a mercy.” 

“Nothing’s stopping you from speaking out in court.” 

Malfoy looks as though he’s about to respond to that at first. After a beat, though, whatever force of will was animating him before seems to rush out of him all at once, and instead of biting back with something equally frustrating and stubborn, he simply turns and begins to walk again. Harry bites back an odd sense of disappointment. 

The flowerbeds are immaculate. Malfoy takes care to step around them, as if frightened of leaving a single footprint. 

“Okay,” says Harry, after a few more minutes of intermittent sunshine and excruciating silence. “Humour me for a moment, would you?” 

“That sounds unnecessary. I decline.” 

Ignoring that: “Why are you still trying so hard to get prosecuted for attempted murder?” 

Malfoy tugs at a nearby leaf, and begins shredding it between his fingernails. “I am getting very bored of that question.” 

“I assumed so. That’s why I said ‘humour me’.” 

“It’s also why I said ‘I decline’.” 

“Because you’re bored of answering?” asks Harry. “Or because you’re not too sure yourself? You know, for a Slytherin, you’re not particularly good at planning things through.” 

At this, Malfoy goes satisfyingly pink-cheeked. He tosses the leaf he was massacring aside, and for a moment, Harry imagines he is going to get bludgeoned by a lavender bush. Amazingly, though, he seems to make a conscious decision not to take the bait. He just suddenly looks extremely resolute. 

“Your friend Granger,” he says, slowly, “thinks I should pillory myself and apologise.” 

Harry blinks. “I didn’t realise you’d spoken to Hermione,” he says, carefully. 

“I suppose you think she’s justified in suggesting I sully the Malfoy name for generations to come.” 

“I mean,” says Harry - again, carefully. “Yes.” 

“You’re impossible to talk to.” 

Harry scoffs at this, pulling forward a couple of paces in front of him. 

Is this the status quo he was looking for? These bizarre, muted hostilities? It doesn’t feel anything like getting rid of a loose end - more like it’s fraying into a million smaller ones. And it doesn’t change the fact that Hermione is right, either: right where Malfoy is wrong, and has always been wrong. Does he ever get tired of being on the _idiot_ side of things? 

They do end up heading back indoors eventually, whereupon Harry lets Malfoy retire unaccompanied to one of the innumerable fancy sitting rooms, probably in order to wallow in his own torment or something. For his part, Harry takes refuge in the kitchen; long hours stationed at the manor have taught both him and a longsuffering Auror Henderson that this is the place least likely to engender any awkward Narcissa collisions. Although it didn’t stop Draco from apparently taking all her toast that one time. 

He manages to kill at least an hour or so by making up arcane uses for some of the ridiculous, fiddly-looking utensils that are stashed in various cupboards to no discernible purpose. Thus far, he’s managed to identify a caviar grater, a ventilated measuring basin, a paring fork, and at least three separate inexplicably snail-shaped tureens whose significance he cannot even begin to fathom. He’s seen neither hide nor hair of a house elf, but that’s probably par for the course; he can imagine the Malfoys painstakingly schooling them into hiding at the first hint of wizard presence. 

After a while, more to justify his presence here than anything else, he settles upon actually making tea. That, in itself, is a relatively logical step. 

Decidedly less logical is the way in which he finds himself climbing up the stairs towards the Magenta Room once he’s done. 

Malfoy shoots him a look of horror when he enters - which is a bit rich, considering he’d just finished telling Harry to come in after he knocked. On closer investigation, though, it’s not Harry he’s glaring at, per se, but the two steaming mugs he happens to be carrying. 

Right. Not tea friends. 

Harry gives him a level look. “Hi. Do you not want the tea?”

“I didn’t say anything –”

“I can get rid of the tea.”

“What makes you think -?” 

“You said -” Harry breaks off. Shrugs. 

Malfoy pauses. His hands curl into fists. 

Then: “You’d better give me that bloody tea, Potter, or I’ll jam my wand in your eye socket.”

Reminding him that as per the conditions of his bail, he doesn’t currently possess a wand would probably not go down too well. 

As is, Malfoy takes a sip: delicate, as if for fear that Harry has substituted acid for milk. 

And then: “Oh, _screw you_ , Potter.” 

Harry sets his own cup down, bemused. “What now?”

“This is _good tea_ ,” pronounces Draco, appalled. 

“Well, yes.” 

“ _Well_ , you’ve ruined everything! It was supposed to be dreadful. Your tea-making skills were supposed to be dreadful, and I was supposed to lambast you for it.” 

Harry blinks. “Am I missing something here?”

“Tea Prodigy Potter!” Draco rails. “The Boy Who Brewed! No, you’re not _missing_ anything.”

A longer, more contemplative pause. 

“Are you always this bitter, or do I get special treatment?” inquires Harry, politely. 

Draco slides down further into his chair. “I’m always this bitter.”

Harry actually does laugh at that. “Yeah, well, just think,” he says, cheerfully. “Soon this will all be over, and we can get back to hating each other.”

Malfoy looks up at him and sneers. “I’m sure that’ll be lovely for you Potter, but I’ll be doing no such thing.”

Harry looks briefly incredulous. 

“You’re _allowed_ to hate me,” Malfoy elaborates. “ _I’ll_ simply have to be grateful.”

This… isn’t going to way Harry planned. He had hoped to make Malfoy happier with this pronouncement. 

It occurs to him that this particular motive might have been its own problem. 

“I suppose I could try… not to hate you,” says Harry, magnanimously. As if he hasn’t done so already, for a long while now. As if they’ve honestly managed to make it back to normal. 

Malfoy’s laugh is like everything else about him right now: bitter and despondent. “Don’t strain anything. Although, if you really want to make a start on it, could you maybe do me one favour?” 

Whatever apprehension he feels must show plainly on his face, because Malfoy gives a gusty sigh. 

“It’s still not a scheme,” he continues, irritated. “Just - a friend. Someone my family lost touch with, back before - well, anyway. It’d be good to see him for a bit, before the Tribunal finally comes to its senses and -”

“Clears you of all charges?” 

“Actually issues a sentence.” His fists clench minutely against his robes, crumpling the intricate lace edging. “Anyway, I just need to send a letter. You can read through it and everything, it’s just - they don’t let us have owls.” 

It’s a weird request, but at this point, Harry would do roughly anything to put a dent in Malfoy’s resignation. The way he voices the request, it’s clear he expects nothing other than a refusal - it’s just a question of how polite Harry’s going to be about it. 

Well. If Malfoy thinks he’s predictable, he’s going to find out the hard way that Harry won’t be bullied out of - er, well, of giving him exactly what he wants. 

“I can do that,” he says, and is rewarded by a look of mild shock. “Just give me the address.” 

\---

Honestly, Draco probably wouldn’t have gone through with it if Potter hadn’t accused him of being _bad at planning_. He’d been perfectly prepared to see this farce of a trial through to its eventual, ponderous conclusion without ever intervening, vast indignity of it all be damned. But something deep within him had baulked at the sheer depth of that particular insult - plus, the look on Potter’s face had been ample proof that, try as he might, he would never make it through to the end without being comprehensively cleared of all charges. At least not without outside intervention. 

So at the end of it all, the blame lay squarely on Potter’s own doorstep - even if, strictly speaking, it had been Granger who had given him the idea. 

Not being an idiot, he hadn’t sent the letter directly. But the Malfoy name has currency to it yet, and where there is currency, there are means - and, in short, not all of their contacts are moribund. Nor is his planning anything other than _scrupulous_. As such, when Spurius Vaughn of the _Evening Clarion_ is escorted past the gates, it is not as editor for one of the oldest established papers in wizarding Britain, but as Bartholomew Hemingway, antiques dealer and old family friend. 

If Potter and Auror Henderson are at all suspicious of this newcomer, Vaughn’s meticulously cultivated grandfatherly air manages to dispel any doubts; he and Draco greet each other like family, with blithely ostentatious commiserations expressed on Vaughn’s side, and grateful acceptance on Draco’s. After exchanging a couple of polite words with an unblinking Vivian Henderson, the two of them retire to the Miscellaneous China Ornaments Room for tea. 

Mother, as she promised, manages to distract both Potter and Henderson with the offer of a friendly game of Animate Dominoes. Meanwhile, Draco and Spurius seat themselves opposite one another, face to face across an elaborately piled tea table. 

Draco motions for his guest to take a finger sandwich. 

“All right, Draco,” says Vaughn, the misty hint of utterly falsified nostalgia disappearing from his features, only to be replaced with a) a mercenary smile, and b) an open notebook. “We’ll start with a couple of questions.” 

Geriatric though he may appear, Draco has long since learned not to underestimate the efficacy of an interview with Spurius Vaughn. Immediately, he smiles his acquiescence. 

“These past few days must have been trying for you, no? Still waiting on that verdict, and all.” This spoken through a mouthful of cucumber sandwich. 

Draco settles back against the cushions of his high-backed chair and keeps smiling. “Well, you see, Spurius, it’s not the waiting that has me worried. I’m not disinclined to be patient, and I’m certainly not afraid of the verdict. No - what concerns me is the Tribunal itself.” 

“Really?” Vaughn’s smile is quite astonishingly toothy; Draco’s can’t remember ever noticing that before. “But the Tribunal was specifically designed to include some of the most famed figureheads of the resistance. Are you saying you think your case has been mishandled?” 

“I’m saying my case has been sabotaged,” says Draco, coolly. “As you know, at the very start of the trial, I pled guilty of all charges. I am thoroughly prepared to atone for all I did during the war. Imagine my surprise when I found my _right to do penance_ was being withheld by a biased Tribunal.” 

Vaughn shoots him a strange look, as though the prospect of Draco wanting to reclaim agency and salvage the family honour is incomprehensible. _Sotto voice_ , he murmurs: “Off the record - that’s still your angle?” 

“Yes!” says Draco, indignantly. 

“It just doesn’t seem to make much…” Vaughn arrests himself, pausing only to clear his throat. Regular volume now: “You’ve made similar criticisms before.” 

“Yes, I have - from the very start.” Now for the coup de grace. Hidden by his robes, Draco’s hands tense against his knees. “But honestly, Spurius, this goes far deeper than me. This is a question of the very fabric of wizarding society.” 

Vaughn lifts his woolly grey eyebrows. “Explain?” 

It’s all for the greater good. By which he means, amongst other things, the good of his family. Draco wants to face the consequences of his actions - he wants to finally face his punishment with whatever pride he can salvage - and if unsettling the very foundation of their current government is the only way to achieve this, then by Merlin, he will tear them to _shreds_. 

“Well, you see - the Tribunal itself was introduced as a stop-gap measure, to give the wizarding public time to rebuild the Ministry and re-establish a fair judicial system. However, there had been no meaningful talk whatsoever about elections. What we have at the moment is little short of a very prestigious, very well-meaning _dictatorship_.”

Vaughn looks intrigued by this. Still, he dutifully sets out the counter-argument. “The wizarding public have been assured that there will be elections as soon as the Ministry has been able to redevelop the requisite infrastructure.” 

“How much time does it take to repair a ballot box?” Draco shakes his head. “The fact is, people are more concerned with locking up ex Death Eaters than with representative democracy.”

Vaughn taps his quill against the page. No Quick Quotes for him; this man is reassuringly old-school - not the least in the ease with which his good opinion can be bought. “So, from the sound of things, you have two complaints. One is about the alleged mishandling of your trial. One is about the Tribunal as an organisation.” 

“That’s the succinct way of putting it, yes.” 

“How would you propose we move forward, Draco?” 

“As to how we rebuild the Ministry - that, I’ll leave to those with greater expertise than my own,” says Draco, humbly. “But what I want for myself is simple. I don’t want my future to be at the whim of a hastily-constructed Tribunal, the majority of whom possess little to no legal experience. What I want is for an end to the Potter Administration. I want a jury trial. And I want my sentence.” 

A pause. Vaughn’s quill moves steadily across the page. Draco allows himself, minutely, to relax. 

No need for impatience. He’ll get there when he’s ready. 

The sharp tick of the hallway clock overlaps somewhat arhythmically with the scrape of nib against parchment. 

“Is that enough to be getting on with, do you think?” he asks, eventually, when he’s quite certain that Vaughn must have had enough time to record everything he said, verbatim, thrice over. 

“Just one more question,” says Vaughn. Once again, Draco tenses. “A few days ago, Harry Potter, hero of the wizarding world and vanquisher of the Dark Lord, testified that you aided him in his escape from a group of Death Eaters - both by refusing to identify him, and allowing him to take possession of your wand. Is there any truth to either of these claims?” 

Darkness. Sound. Draco visibly flinches. A series of curses and hysterical commands, and Potter’s hands on his; a confused, unscripted skirmish that he can scarcely recollect, much less separate into action and intent. 

And that’s the awful crux of it: Draco doesn’t know. It’s too confused. Or rather, it’s too clean a break. That year, he was nothing more than a vessel for two competing impulses: to fight, and to flee; to serve – or to help destroy – the man – the god – he both despised and venerated. He was frighteningly good at it, too. He alternated between them, hiding within either one or the other, and he scarcely had time to distinguish the two, let alone analyse himself. How is he supposed to know which side of him was in charge that night? How is he meant to state, with any degree of honesty, which mask he just happened to be wearing? 

He isn’t sure. He couldn’t say. It both was and it wasn’t Potter; he wasn’t _sure_.

“That’s not really relevant,” Draco snaps - harsher than he’d intended. Then, remembering himself and regaining his composure somewhat, he says: “Look, the fact of it is, I’m guilty. I made bad choices, and that’s the long and short of it. There’s no denying that, much as the Tribunal would love to. The question isn’t _verdict_ , but _punishment_.” He takes a breath. “I have every intention of going to Azkaban. I’m ready. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let it tarnish the Malfoy name. Surviving the Battle was like stepping into a new world: one that had finished with me and mine. One where there was no place for my family.” He draws himself up. “But I swear, on my word as a wizard, that this new world will _always_ have a place for the Malfoy family. Because I will _make_ one. I’m not giving up. I was an idiot for even considering it. I will _not_ let them judge me as a child; I’ll fight them on every front before they shame me by allowing me to escape the consequences of my actions. And I’ll do it by telling the truth.” 

“So you’re saying this fight is personal, rather than political?” Vaughn presses. 

Draco gives a harsh laugh. “It’s whatever you’d like it to be. After all, is there really any difference?” A pause. “Is that it?” 

There is another agonisingly prolonged interval. Then, finally, Vaughn’s notebook closes with a snap. Another thin, sharklike smile. “That will do very nicely.”


	6. Chapter 6

It is with considerable and completely unanticipated _joie de vivre_ that Draco finds himself donning his second-best set of everyday robes (after paying more attention to his hair than he probably has in the past few weeks put together) in preparation for the day ahead. No longer, he resolves, will he compromise his appearance in the name of haste. In lieu of his usual perfunctory shower, he takes a defiantly long, luxurious soak in the king-sized bathtub of his en suite, dousing himself in the floral-scented contents of all of those fiddly little cosmetic bottles on the side that he’s never bothered unstoppering before - and even finds himself _whistling_ in the process, as if action is its own call for optimism. 

He thinks of the likely bathroom conditions in Azkaban, and summons a healthy shudder. 

The _Evening Clarion_ is in the process of being distributed to wizarding households across the country. In less than a few hours, the Tribunal is going to be facing a home-brewed hazard to the very nature of its existence, and if Draco doesn’t get his jury trial over this, there’ll be hell to pay. What’s more: for the first time in over a year, the Malfoys won’t be the ones footing the bill. 

Except, of course, in the literal sense. Still, Vaughn does discounts. 

Optimism has its own perils. All the despair that fuelled him up until now seems to have dried up, at probably the most inconvenient stage in the game. There was almost something nice about having given up all hope – just as there was something reassuring about the thought that whatever people said or did could no longer damage him. Now, he’s as vulnerable as ever. 

And he’s still going to prison. 

He’d _better_ (he reminds himself, sternly) be going to prison.

Emerging from his room, he finds his mother waiting on the doorstep, looking happier than he has seen her in - Merlin, months at least. Draco doesn’t even attempt to stifle his smile as she sweeps him into an excited hug, though he halts an inch from her shoulder in an attempt to avoid dripping on her. She too, he notes - feeling the touch of fine silk against his cheek - has taken particular care in the state of her dress, and - oh - it brings to mind ballrooms, and champagne glasses, and meticulously orchestrated charity events with carefully tailored guest lists: _dignity_ , in short - and right, he needs to curb the nostalgia sharpish, lest he inappropriately weep. In any case, apparently optimism, however intangible the foundation, is catching. 

“Clever, my son. Very clever!” Narcissa draws back, beaming. 

Draco has never been one to pass up on parental congratulations, even when he’s only halfway certain why he’s receiving them. “Well, I try.” 

“And to think, I was worried you were serious earlier! You might have let me in on it, at any rate.” 

Draco blinks. “Too risky,” he says, after a beat. “Who knows who might have overheard? Um, mother, did we get the _Clarion_ today?” 

“You haven’t seen it yet?” 

Carefully, he shakes his head. Immediately, a paper is placed in his hands. With no small amount of trepidation, he peers at his own frowning headshot, giving it a critical once-over. It’s a far cry from _I question the neutrality of this Tribunal_ \- chin perched on steepled hands, he looks positively scholarly, in fact - but, by and large, it could be better; there’s a sickly cast to his complexion, even in monochrome, that is hardly aided by the deepening smudges adorning his eyes. If this is as close as he’s going to get to a candid pre-Azkaban shot, then he shudders to think what might happen to his skin after years’ worth of incarceration. 

Better to drop that notion. Instead, he takes note of the headline. 

_TRIBUNAL TROUBLES: Draco Malfoy Condemns “Potter Administration”._

“Er - mother…?” He darts a panicked glance over his shoulder; she shakes her head, still smiling, and motions towards the paper again. 

_Draco Malfoy, 18, has experienced far more than any adolescent should. Forced throughout the war to perform despicable acts at the behest of the Dark wizard holding his entire family hostage, it is little wonder he looks pale and wan; the sheer horror of what he has experienced defies belief. However, one thing he is not is defeated. Though battling overblown accusations from all corners of wizarding society, he refuses to allow this to dampen his commitment to social change - a fact that is evident when one questions him on the progress of his current trial._

_When asked about his dealings with the Special War Tribunal, he very insistently refuses to focus on his own predicament. Instead, what he delivers is a cutting indictment of our current interim government. “What we have at the moment,” says Malfoy, “is little short of a very prestigious, very well-meaning dictatorship”._

_It is true that the Tribunal itself consists of unelected individuals - most of whom never had anything to do with the Ministry of Magic at any point in their careers. Indeed, many are only just of age - with its youngest, Neville Longbottom, scant months older than Draco himself. Is it any wonder that the wizarding public are beginning to question their efficacy?_

A thin wave of nausea breaks over him. Phrases like _flagrant disregard for democracy, reactionary measures,_ and - Merlin - _anti-ex-Death Eater prejudice_ leap out from the page. Worse still are his own. _My case has been sabotaged._ Then: _I’ll fight them on every front before they shame me._

Vaughn has taken his interview and created a monster. 

Or. Created something not entirely unlike his interview. 

Merlin’s _balls_. How could he not have anticipated this? And wasn’t _this_ what he was angling for in the first place: a death-knoll for the Tribunal? But all of this feels so wrong, in ways he can scarcely bring himself to examine, much less articulate.

Apprehensively - almost loath to look at it, as if he might prevent it from existing by simply averting his gaze - his eyes glide down to the conclusion. 

_And why, we might well ask, have we allowed our priorities to come so far askew? Malfoy has his answer. “The fact is,” he tells me, “people are more concerned with locking up ex Death Eaters than with representative democracy”. In light of what we now know of the Tribunal’s priorities, it is entirely possible that this long-suffering young man might be correct in his analysis. One thing is for certain: whilst making amends for what was done during the war important, there are far more immediate concerns. This is about the very lifeblood of our society. This is a question of wizarding identity, and it goes beyond petty vengeance._

Draco looks back up at his mother, and almost winces as he watches her react to his expression. 

“That’s - that’s out of context,” he says, helplessly. “It’s not - I didn’t…” 

A couple of droplets of water shake free from the ends of his hair as he shakes his head, falling directly onto his face in the photograph. His own black-and-white doppelganger shoots him a reproving look. 

When he looks up, his mother has managed to school her own expression into one of reassurance. “Darling, I know. Spurius Vaughn has such a vulgar turn of phrase. But it truly was a perfect touch, giving them an enemy to focus on. Our miscalculations pale in comparison to the mess those people have made of the Ministry.” 

“How?” is all Draco can manage. All he can think of is Hermione Granger, eyes wide with entreaty: _you don’t even realise how much power you have._

Narcissa hardly seems to hear him speak. “I’m sorry for doubting you, love. It’s a flawless solution.”

He wasn’t wrong to criticise the Tribunal. They _are_ inexperienced. However difficult it might have been to reconstruct the Ministry from the top down when nearly every civil servant had been implicated in the Dark Lord’s - schemes - it can’t excuse this kind of delay. He’s _not wrong_. Granger even said it herself. 

_And people will take comfort from that, because it’s true - and because it’s true, they won’t ever question it further._

Oh, come on. Surely one little headline can’t make people forget why they fought an entire war. 

“A jury trial wouldn’t make a bit of difference to your situation. It took a while for me to see it, but you weren’t thinking of yourself, were you?”

Unless they were looking for an excuse not to remember. 

“You were thinking of your _father_ …” 

Wait. 

The world seems to lurch on its axis and then realign into dizzying clarity. Draco clutches at the paper until it buckles - taking a handful of lightheaded moments just to breathe - thinking of empty rooms, and bare cloakstands, and Malfoy Manor hollow as a shucked oyster in the absence of its head of house - 

No Special Tribunal in the world would acquit Lucius Malfoy. 

Juries are easy to corrupt, if you know how to grease the right pockets. 

His mother is still standing before him, pale eyes bright with concern. As if Draco has any right to benefit from it, having never considered that he might use this new leverage to extricate his father from a net of his own devising - to wrest acquittal from the teeth of the law - as if he was ever that forward-thinking or unselfish. 

Yes, here in the midst of it all is Narcissa, blithely informing Draco of what she - quicker-witted than he could ever hope to be - assumes was the scheme all along. He’s ashamed. No - this is worse than shameful, piling grief upon grief on his own flesh and blood - snatching hope from her reaching hands at the very last instant, only to pack his bags for Azkaban out of sheer obduracy…

“Draco?” 

The world slides out of orbit once more. 

No. Why would she bother to _narrate_ what he already knows? His mother is not rejoicing in his cleverness. His mother, heaven help them all, is giving him an out. In full knowledge of what his real intentions were, she’s offering to let him pretend this was what he was planning in the first place. 

The paper drops. Every breath seems to scald him. 

“I,” Draco manages, and his voice emerges strangely choked. “I.”

Exquisitely outmanoeuvred: yet another forced move in an interminable string of forced moves. Sometimes, Draco wishes he wasn’t quite so alive to the irony of his own situation. 

“Congratulations, my son,” says his mother - and gently, with inexpressible tenderness, takes him by the arm. “You’ve saved us all from ruin.”

It is with immediate and perfect clarity that Draco comes to a realisation: Granger can go hang. 

He’s not going to prison. 

He isn’t going to fool himself into thinking he’s going to gain _friends_ out of this. It’s purely a matter of survival. He surprises himself with how much he actually cares about survival now. No: Azkaban is out of the question, and always was. What had he been thinking? _Had_ he been thinking? 

He’s back. For better or worse; no more crazy, protracted suicide-by-tribunal. He will liberate his father, and he’ll turn his back on guilt - having finally emerged from this haze, he will be the head of house his mother deserves: at least until the rightful head returns to claim the family seat. It’ll probably hurt all the more after the jury condemns him once and for all – or hell, after this, Harry Potter might see fit to try and lumber him with a life sentence – but right now, he can’t bring himself to care. 

If he’s as powerful as all that, he might as well use it. Make Granger’s deranged, paranoid prophecy take wing - why not, after all? Why not take heart in his strength as he mounts the scaffold? The damage is already done. 

Besides. He rather likes the sound of becoming a national icon. 

\---

Harry had been searching Diagon Alley for some loose-leaf tea that might recommend itself to Malfoy’s pedantic tastes when Hermione had caught up to him with the _Clarion_. Horrified, they had read it together, wincing at every other line - at which point, he had wasted no time in Apparating straight to Malfoy Manor. 

Had it been anyone else, he might even have been disappointed. 

Binky escorts him through more winding, practically unidentifiable corridors until they happen across the right sitting room. When Harry opens the door, Malfoy is sitting on a wing-backed armchair: thin legs stretched out regally before him; pale eyes alive with malice. Gone are the loose, nondescript robes that he’d been favouring at the hearings. The gleaming, dove-gray fabric of this new ensemble is stiff with embroidery, laced up to the neck with a thin red ribbon that cuts across his throat like a gash. His chin rests defiantly against the fingers of one hand, forcing it higher than is his custom; there is nothing to his expression - and for a moment, in spite of himself, Harry thinks almost with relief, _ah, there you are_. 

And then: _I am going to_ strangle _you_. 

Still, he’s careful as he approaches the threshold, careful as he steps over into this latest, ludicrous sitting room - the weird one lined wall-to-wall with swords - and he’s gentle as he speaks. 

“You’re better than this, Draco,” he says, levelly, and Malfoy flinches like he knew he would. 

Malfoy’s hands tense. There is a hard, fevered look to his expression: eyes bright and attentive, as if caught in the midst of a thunderstorm on the battlements; as if he’s moments away from telling Albus Dumbledore that _he_ did it, _him_ , without any help, and now he’s the one with the wand. He’s impotent here, and he knows it - knows he’s about to lose this round the same way he lost everything at school - yet in spite of that knowledge, he’s thrilled all the same: somehow, once again, the dupe of his own bravado. 

He breathes tightly, and though Harry is still standing, he makes no attempt to rise. 

“Good to see you too, Potter. Shall I send for some tea?” He gestures lazily at nothing in particular, as if preparing to click his fingers to summon a house elf. Harry feels a violent surge of hatred. 

“We’re not doing this,” he says - aware that he’s toeing the edge of calm: aware that he needs to leave before they goad each other back into being students again. 

Malfoy chuckles, and Harry stays right where he is, rooted to the spot in total fury. 

He finds himself saying, entirely without thinking: “Would it have killed you to take Hermione’s advice? Is it so difficult to say _sorry_ that you’ve got to blame an entire government instead? 

He’d been meaning to appeal to something - bigger - than whatever there is between them, but he’s still viscerally satisfied at the sight of another, more violent flinch. 

“Nothing could induce me to take orders from that woman,” Malfoy snaps - every word a separate lash. 

“Your aunt sliced the word ‘mudblood’ into her arm,” says Harry, with a scoff. “Are you saying she doesn’t have the right?” 

“Just because my family tree grew a _nut_ or two here and there doesn’t mean I have to fulfil whatever twaddle some bucktoothed pedant requests of me.” 

Harry just looks at him, hard - and, on some level, the sheer bulk of effort it is taking not to hex him into oblivion right here, wandless and unguarded, must be visible, because Malfoy flushes a deep pink. For a moment, it looks as though he might back down or avert his gaze - but then it’s over, and he’s looking at Harry with every bit the same amount of spite as before. Harry feels an inexplicable flare of satisfaction at that. At both those things. 

“You’re such a coward,” says Harry. His voice emerges colder than he thought he was capable of these days. “And you’re not even _smart_ about it. You still have no idea what any of this means, do you?” 

Malfoy gives a frustrated little shake of his head, flushed with indignation. “Not when you’re being deliberately obtuse about it, I don’t!” There’s a barely bitten-back hysteria to his tone that’s still there, still as petulant as ever, after two years and a civil war. 

Harry doesn’t move. “It means you never made it off the Astronomy Tower. You’re every bit as hateful as you were back then.” 

Eyes hot with resentment, Malfoy manages to meet his gaze. He stands up abruptly, brittle and unyielding: knuckles white against the gray of his robes - hands knotted into fists. Every part of him is tightly coiled, as if poised to strike. He takes a step towards Harry. 

It’s a judgement call. 

“You wouldn’t,” says Harry, after a beat. 

Malfoy gives a harsh scrape of a laugh, and glares at him, pale eyes alive with malice. “Scared, Potter?” 

And before Harry can react, he bounds over to one of the gem-encrusted ornamental swords mounted on the wall, and unhooks it with a sickening rattle of steel against wallpaper. With an air of supreme, maniacal daring, he then proceeds to hold aloft with the vaguely alarming air of someone who might halfway know what he is doing with the thing. 

“Er-”

“Harry Potter, for the public insult you have paid me in court, I challenge you to a wizarding duel.” He meets Harry’s eyes, fierce and unyielding. “For want of a wand, I declare the weapon to be sabres. Now draw!” 

Harry blinks. 

Malfoy _lunges_. 

It’s only through a haze of utter perplexity that Harry is able to summon the foresight to dodge. Nonetheless, he manages - throwing himself to the side just as Malfoy’s misappropriated sword comes shearing through the air several inches away from his shoulder. He catches himself on the table’s edge before his own momentum sends him toppling to the floor, and stares at Malfoy in utter disbelief. 

“Think I’m joking, do you?” says Malfoy, with considerable scorn. “Draw!” 

“This isn’t a bloody duel, you wanker - this is me fending off a madman with a stick,” Harry informs him - before reaching out to the side, and tearing his own weapon from the wallpaper. 

It’s very poorly weighted. The amount that Harry knows about swords could probably be scrawled across the hen’s-egg ruby of the only one he’s ever handled with room to spare, but even he can tell that this is very much a wall ornament, not a weapon. Still, there’s a decent heft to it, and he’s able to hold it out before him defensively in a way that hopefully looks less ludicrous than it feels. 

“Don’t give me that look,” says Malfoy. “Like I’m the freak you’re humouring or something stupid. Do not test me, Potter.” 

Harry squints at him. “Sorry, but you’re not giving me too many options here. It’s humour you or be hacked to death by a family heirloom.” 

Actually, he’s probably in luck here. As he lifts the weapon, Malfoy’s eyes widen - which is ridiculous, considering just who exactly first brandished a piece of sharp, ornately-decorated steel at whom - but at least acts as a certain amount of evidence to the fact that Harry has succeeded in looking slightly more intimidating than comedic. Though evidently not overwhelmingly so, as it isn’t long before Malfoy dismisses his incredulity with an abrupt shake of the head (displacing his fringe), and advances towards Harry with renewed determination. 

“I’m _not wrong_ ,” hisses Malfoy, brandishing the sword before him. “Your Tribunal is a mess. Your government more so. How are we meant to get a fresh start when no-one but your jumped-up, militaristic cronies get any say?” 

“It’s not _my_ anything,” Harry reminds him. “Obviously there are problems here, but don’t try to convince me you give a rat’s arse about any of it. All you’ve ever wanted to do is hurt people.” 

With that, Malfoy takes another swipe directly at him. With an inexpert scramble, Harry blocks. He’s beginning to get into the swing of this, actually - and, as such, in retaliation, takes a less-than-cautious swing. Malfoy counters with irritating poise, sweeping the blow aside with an ungainly clatter of steel against steel, and Harry is forced to retreat a step or so. 

“Oh, just because you’d rather _scapegoat_ me -”

“I’m trying to exonerate you; you’re scapegoating yourself!”

They clash once more, in a furious tangle of stubbornness and steel. Blades cross: slide. Harry pushes; Malfoy kicks - and both are hurled backwards again. 

There is an airy, breathless laugh shattering the pause that ensues, and it’s coming from _Malfoy_ \- and for some reason, that is the most viscerally satisfying thing in the world, ever, right now - so Harry takes an advantage of the opening and dives, causing Malfoy to stumble right back into one of the spindly, innumerable chairs. 

Harry snorts. “You’re worse at this than you are at Quidditch.” 

All laughter abruptly ceases. “ _Shut up_ , Potter!” 

They’re engaging in earnest now - or at least, Malfoy is; any involvement in this impromptu fencing lesson is purely self-defence on Harry’s part - dodging, weaving and occasionally tripping amongst the furniture. Malfoy is a well-trained but predictably evasive opponent, and Harry finds himself chasing him from one side of the room to the other before he manages to get a hit in - and even then, it is countered in a manner infuriatingly perfunctory, as prelude to yet another unexpected lunge. Harry counters. There’s another jarring ring of steel. It’s dizzying, and awful, and as Malfoy slices forward, finally forcing Harry back, he yanks one-handedly at the stupid scarlet thread of his collar to rip it loose. Harry takes a shuddering breath, and grins - unsure whether it’s adrenaline or amusement that sings through him at the sight. 

Malfoy has the assurance of one who has obviously taken rigorous lessons in swordsmanship since he was basically a foetus, probably, but Harry has a Seeker’s reflexes, and if there’s one thing he’s always had on Malfoy, it’s that he’s faster. They dance to and fro - stupid, unwieldy ornamental swords held aloft in the space between them - and then, just as Harry thinks that he’s there, he’s got him boxed in, pinned between fireplace and table, Malfoy _leaps_ \- and then he’s _on_ the table, of all things, with a breathless _hah!_ and a crunch of crockery. Shamelessly, Harry takes a swipe at his feet - which again, he jumps to evade. 

“Going to have to do better than that, Potter!” declares Malfoy, half-hysterically - kicking a small cake fork at him, which Harry brushes out of the air. Moments later, Malfoy’s sword comes arcing down directly towards his head, and Harry is forced to bring up his own sword to counter what would almost definitely have been a stunning, if not an outright _killing_ blow. Impact rattles through his arms at the clash. 

“Gladly,” manages Harry.

Right. He ducks under, leaving Malfoy momentarily out of range. Then, with his sword-free hand, Harry yanks at the lace tablecloth. He puts enough force behind it to send teacups toppling over the edge, and - “That’s cheating - dammit -!” - Malfoy sliding to the floor with a helpless shout. 

Malfoy lands hard, with a satisfying crash - and a little more force than he’d intended, in all honesty - and, dazed tries to prop himself up on one elbow - scrambling uselessly for his discarded weapon with the other hand. Still, Harry’s mind is empty of any thought but victory as he holds the tip of his sword to Malfoy’s newly-bared throat. 

“Well,” he says - steady, despite the urgent roar of his pulse. “That answers that question.” 

Malfoy - head tipped back, and nose lightly bleeding - takes an indignant breath. “What question?” 

“Whether you could look like even _more_ of an ass than you did ten minutes ago.” 

Malfoy’s eyes narrow into slits. It turns out this is all the warning Harry receives before his sword is wrenched unexpectedly out of his grip. It clatters harmlessly to the side of the room. Then, before he can so much as take a step back, Malfoy is on him, springing up only to bring them both crashing back to the carpet - thus ushering in the markedly less elegant second act to the duel.

“Gerroffame - you - !” 

_“Shut up!”_

Okay, so in fairness, they both almost certainly look like asses of the highest degree. This has absolutely no bearing on Harry’s sudden determination to actually win this one. He’s at a disadvantage right now, with Malfoy half on top of him and fighting to pin both his arms. For a moment, he struggles against the hold - and then Malfoy, the absolute _wanker_ , draws back a fist, presumably with the intention of bloodying Harry’s nose in return - 

\- Harry, with his newly-freed hand, catches Malfoy’s arm before it can do any serious damage - but then his glasses slide askew, and there’s little he can do other than hold him at bay. 

“Admit it,” hisses Malfoy, knee digging into Harry’s abdomen. “What I said was _true_. Or is it too hard to accept that I might have been right about something?” 

“ _Your_ truth, Malfoy. Funny how you suddenly care about Ministry corruption now that it’s no longer benefiting you and yours!” 

At this, Malfoy makes a wild, violent gesture that does very little, and conveys even less. Harry takes advantage of this to twist at his arm with his free hand - causing Malfoy to grimace and hiss. He bucks against him, lashing out, but gets tangled in the hem of his robes, and is forced to fall still again. 

Above him, Malfoy is a wild thing - all frustration and heated fury: a pressure against his chest and shoulders, breath coming out in hot bursts. “I’m doing the _right thing_ , Potter.” 

Harry laughs in his face. “As if you even know what it is you’re doing.” 

One of Harry’s arms might still be trapped, but he can still kick - and so he does this, to great effect. There is a short _whump_ of impact. With a thwarted noise, Malfoy relaxes his grip, and Harry surges up, grabbing him by the wrists. One hard, satisfying wrench and their positions are reversed. Harry forces Malfoy’s arms up above his head, pinning him to the floor. 

At this point, everything goes bizarrely still. 

Malfoy is very tense. Harry can feel his breath against his throat. 

“It was all a ruse, wasn’t it?” Harry finds himself blurting out. “Wanting a guilty verdict. It was all so you could get the chance to do _this_. Publish.” 

“It - wasn’t -!” Malfoy snarls back - practically close enough to actually bite, which is cause for alarm, given his propensity for dirty fighting. “That’s - that’s a lie!” 

“Really? So if I were to tell you, right now, this instant, that you could make amends and go to Azkaban -?” 

Malfoy’s eyes widen in the ensuing silence. Harry presses down harder against his wrists. 

“Thought so.” 

There is a loud, inchoate roar of rage - and Harry finds himself being thrown off again, slamming back to the floor. In the moment it takes him to recollect himself, Malfoy is up on his feet again. Harry hoists himself up as well, mindful of another attack.

Malfoy is a wreck. Patches of embroidery have been torn from the edge of his robes, and the sleeves are rumpled from where he shoved them back in haste. There’s real blood on them too, drab against the scarlet of his collar - from his nose, presumably, scabbed around the edges. 

The raw hatred in his eyes really shouldn’t feel so much like triumph. It is quite possible that Harry is past caring. 

Malfoy steps back and gives a sudden, fastidious little shudder, like he’s trying to divest himself of any nasty recollection of _nearly cleaving Harry’s skull in two_ \- whilst Harry sighs, and fumbles for his wand. 

“Here - look,” he says, broadcasting his movements so that Malfoy won’t _flinch_ again. “I’m not - _episkey_ \- okay?” 

Malfoy wrinkles his newly-fixed nose in unutterable disgust, as though _this_ is the final imposition. 

“Don’t - do that!” he says. Ineffectually, considering. 

Harry just looks at him. 

Malfoy raises his hand, sharply - and in that instant, Harry realises that wait, he’s actually going to _slap_ him - like an eighteenth century noblewoman in a bad period drama - except he doesn’t: he just fixes him with that fierce, fevered expression once more, and Harry finds himself taking a breath. 

“I’d have done it for you, you know,” Malfoy all but spits - and _that’s_ clearly supposed to be the slap, but Harry can’t work out what’s supposed to be so damning about it. It’s - supposed to sting, that much he can ascertain. “If _you’d_ asked me. Before I came to my senses.” 

Is he -? Did Harry end up hit over the head with an ornamental sword without noticing or something? Did Malfoy? 

Still, there he is: solid, a wreck, blocking the path to the door: something utterly unnameable in his eyes, and practically hurling his next words at him. “Isn’t it ironic? If _you’d_ asked me to pillory myself before the court and apologise, then I’d have fucking done it, Potter - the rest be damned!” 

Oh. 

No. Wait. What? 

There’s only one thing to say to that, really. “No you bloody well wouldn’t, you irredeemable tosser.”

Draco flinches, pink-cheeked. He’s still doggedly meeting Harry’s eyes - as if he’s just told him something of vital importance: something that supersedes everything. 

The absolute _prick_. 

“You think it matters that you’re willing to apologise to me?” asks Harry, warming to his theme. “Because - because what exactly? I’m special? Because I saved your life? Is that what it takes to get you to behave like an actual human being? _Your family tortured my best friend_ \- and if that’s not enough for you to maybe, just maybe, consider that what she’s saying is worth listening to, then there’s no hope for you, Malfoy.” He glances across the room - and, almost instinctually, Malfoy does too. Smashed teacups. Stained tablecloth. Battered swords. “You make me sick.” 

There’s another of those long, inexplicable silences, where it feels like something between them has broken, or chafed raw. Harry tries to remember ever experiencing this in school, but all he can think of is Malfoy meeting his eyes in the mirror - of levelling the hawthorn wand at his throat, and of - of _quite_ , and the short walk back to the hall, and feeling absolutely nothing he could name. 

“Yes, well -” Malfoy pauses, struggling. “Well, _good_!”

And he clearly means it as a parting shot - because at that point, he spins on his heel and exits in a swirl of pretentious robes. 

.. Well.


End file.
